


Deep Green

by aurevell



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Banshee Lydia Martin, Derek's pack makes appearances, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Protective Peter Hale, Senior year, Sleepwalking, Spark Stiles Stilinski, The Nemeton - Freeform, enemy wolf pack, gratuitous descriptions of best friendship, serious latchkey parenting in the Stilinski and Martin families, some violence in later parts though, summary maybe sounds dark but it's gonna be pretty chill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27332122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurevell/pseuds/aurevell
Summary: Stiles steps out of his dream between one heartbeat and the next, finding himself alone in a dark wood. The sickly light of the moon, nearly full beyond the branches, spills onto the leaf-strewn ground. It illuminates splatters of mud on his pale ankles.It’s the fourth time this month. “Fuck me,” he grumbles, and calls Lydia.Stiles and Lydia are lots of things: lifelong latchkey kids, aspiring Ivy Leaguers, the terrors of Beacon Hills High, and inseparable best friends. But between Stiles’s sleepwalking and the voices in Lydia’s head, their grip on reality feels tenuous at best.Enter Peter Hale, a charming (probable) serial killer who offers the answers they need—and the chance to be something more than what they are.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 262
Kudos: 506





	1. Grave Dirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed the tag, just want to point out that this an AU, the most notable difference being that Stiles is best friends with Lydia and isn’t friends with Scott. Other differences will hopefully become clear as you read. Feel free to ask about anything that doesn’t make sense once you hit the end - it may be coming up in a later chapter, or I may have wholesale missed it because planning is hard :)

Stiles literally walks out of the dream between one heartbeat and the next. In the time it takes him to snap a twig, he’s stepped over its border and back into reality.

One second, a green sea of leaves billows around him on all sides. He drifts deeper into the shadows between them, step by slow step. Something about the forward momentum is effortless, inevitable, as if gravity has reshaped itself to tug his weight in a new direction. He sinks like a drowning man: slowly, without struggle, with no past and no future—just green leaves that ripple and echo in a language he understands.

In the next second, he’s alone in a dark wood, his bare feet aching and sore. The sickly grey light of the moon, nearly full beyond the branches of the pines, spills onto the leaf-strewn ground before him. It illuminates the splatters of mud on his pale ankles, the scratches on his calves.

As Stiles gets his bearings, the leaves rustle in the wind, but he doesn’t understand their words anymore.

It’s the fourth time this month. “Fuck me,” he grumbles, and calls Lydia.

~*~

Probably in an act of pure revenge, Lydia turns her Prius to blind him with the headlights as she pulls up. Stiles shields his eyes, squinting in the sudden glare.

“It’s four a.m., asshole!” Lydia calls from the lowered car window. Stiles grunts under his breath and crawls inside.

It’s always kind of a challenge to coordinate a pickup point in the preserve. Luckily, Stiles has been here so often that he eventually recognized enough landmarks to make his way back to the access road. Unluckily, he and Lydia have spent the past twenty minutes playing a grumpy game of “not _that_ patch of trees, the other one.”

Somehow, Lydia looks immaculate as always, even just in silky sleepwear. It’s like she’s somehow rolled out of a photoshoot instead of out of bed. The only indication otherwise is the delicate puffiness under her eyes, the telltale sign of a sleepless night and not a sudden wake-up.

She looks him up and down. “How did you get leaves in your _hair._ ”

“It’s a gift,” Stiles replies primly, reaching up to brush them off. At her imperious look, he flicks them out the window. “Thanks for the ride.”

Lydia _hmphs_ and puts the car in gear, directing them back toward town. The little-used road is laden with leaves and twigs that crack under the car tires, loud in the silent woods. “Guess your dad’s not home?”

“Far as I know.” His dad’s cruiser hadn’t been there when he’d gone to bed, but Stiles knows his dad has all he needs to overnight at the office when things get tough. He does it a lot nowadays.

It’s better this way, though: Stiles doesn’t bug his dad with stuff like this, not if he can help it. There are some things you don’t bring up. Not when your father’s main job is no longer “being your dad.” Stiles doesn’t know when exactly his father started throwing himself head-first into police work, but it’s been a long time since he ran crying to his old man about bumps in the night. Especially when those bumps involve weird dreams not unlike the ones his mom used to have way back when—though hers never pulled her out of bed, as far as he knows.

But just because Stiles hasn’t been running to his dad at night doesn’t mean he’s been alone. He’s had Lydia.

Lydia, who looks like she’s a blink away from being comatose. “Were you sleeping?” he asks.

She snorts. “My parents are still in London. The house feels too empty. I couldn’t.”

“What's the word?”

“The voices won’t shut up. I could only make out some of it, but it’s definitely complaining. Something to do with either the heating or the pipes. Or something. I realized I wasn’t going to get back to sleep, so I got up a while ago to look over the APUSH notes for the test.”

A yawn nearly splits Stiles’ face in two. “Spirits are dicks.”

“If I could tell them that, I would.”

“Must be hard being the next ghost whisperer.”

“It’s completely one-sided. _I’m_ not whispering to _them_.”

“Touché,” Stiles retorts, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window.

 _Voices from ghosts, and voices from leaves,_ Stiles thinks sleepily. Their friendship is built on several traits, and one of them is that neither of them are exactly “ _of sound mind_ ,” as determined by their respective shrinks. Or especially the school counselors. But at least if they’re gonna end up in Eichen one day, he’ll have someone watching his back while he spits his pills into the toilet.

Somewhere between the access roads and the suburban sprawl, Stiles falls into a doze. He only wakes with a jolt when they pull into the driveway. Even with the security lights that line the pavement and well-trimmed lawn, the immense Martin house seems shadowed and foreboding against the starlit sky. Stiles can see why Lydia always has a hard time here by herself.

A hot shower wipes the grime from his skin. He grabs his spare clothes from his drawer beneath Lydia’s window. At last he crawls into bed, exhaustion weighing down his shoulders. Sleep starts to claim him the second his head sinks into the down of Lydia’s fancy-ass pillows.

From the desk where she bends over her notes, Lydia grumbles, “If I fail this test, you are _dead_ to me.”

~*~

Neither of them, Lydia in particular, has ever settled for a score below 94 without a fight, not in their entire high school careers. (And even a 94, as Lydia puts it, “is for quitters.”) And so obviously, failure isn’t really in the cards.

It’s probably not because the APUSH teacher, Mr. Westover, is mildly frightened of them already, just a few weeks into the school year (though he is, and for good reason). It’s also probably not just because Stiles knows the material backward and forward, having already been paid to write the last homework assignment for four of his classmates. Or just because Lydia’s a goddess who’s basically taught herself everything on the syllabus from Columbus to Reconstruction.

Maybe it’s all of those things together. But it’s also because Lydia’s not settling for an in-state school with “the plebes.” Her sights are set on something big, something Ivy League.

Stiles has listened to her talk about The Plan for years, ever since they were old enough to ditch Lydia’s nanny to escape to the library together: valedictorian, Ivy League school, master’s and doctorate degrees, Fields medal. In fact, The Plan is probably the biggest difference about the two of them. Lydia knows exactly what she wants and how to get it; at a loss for what else to do, Stiles is determined to follow her partway until he figures the rest out for himself. If he’s honest, he’s not sure he could chart another course even if he wanted to. There’s something magnetic and comforting for them both, he thinks, in assuming their path forward together is set in stone.

They finish the test just minutes apart and nearly a half-hour early. Mr. Westover, whose pinched expression suggests he resents having both of them in the same class this year, lets them leave early to head to independent study. Stiles covers a yawn on the way out.

“You need to get your shit together, Stilinski,” Lydia warns him as they pass the freshmen lockers. She yanks a lock of her hair from beneath the strap of her purse. “If you’re not salutatorian by the end of the year, I’m leaving you behind.”

“What makes you think I won’t be valedictorian?” Stiles jokes, and the disparaging look she throws over her shoulder is enough of an answer.

Their lockers are finally side by side this year, a feat that had taken a little work last spring, with Stiles cozying up to the admin assistant and twice bringing brownies to the entire front staff. Lydia rolled her eyes at it way back when, but she hasn’t exactly been complaining about the end result: upper-tier, squat-free lockers just down the hall from the cafeteria.

As she opens hers now, Stiles notes that she’s already got her usual intense and color-coded shelving system going on. (Stiles has an organizational system that involves packing his least-used books at the bottom of the pile.) But looking past her, he spots trouble: some blonde girl, flanked by two friends, approaches cautiously from the adjoining hall.

“Uh, hi. Lydia? Hi, are you still, um—” She flounders, either too afraid to say what she wants or too nervous to remember what it is.

Lydia glares flatly. Stiles throws the girl a lifeline. “Date makeup? Or—” he squints at her. “Wait, a dance? Winter formal, maybe?”

The girl gives a jerky nod. “Lucia Nicholls said you do the _best_ makeup,” she gushes, throwing in a little extra enthusiasm in the face of Lydia’s icy gaze. “But she also said your schedule fills up fast.”

Stiles frowns, turning back to Lydia. “Think that’s still happening? It’s still a long way off, but there’s the town curfew, with the whole search for those missing women or whatever. Plus all those other _confirmed_ murders, amiright?”

“Shouldn’t you know either way, as the Sheriff’s son?” Lydia asks, raising an eyebrow as rummages through her purse.

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t think he’s exactly up-to-date on how curfews affect high school social lives. Anyway, are _we_ going? If they aren’t flat-out cancelling stuff?”

Frowning thoughtfully, Lydia pulls out her textbook and stacks it with the others in her locker. “I think so. Normally, I’d have wanted to.”

Once upon a time, Stiles thinks, she would have been going to winter formal with Jackson, and ferociously campaigning for queen since the first day of class. Probably dragging Stiles into helping with posters or something. At the very least, she certainly would have remembered the event’s existence before now.

But things are different these days. “Okay then,” Stiles says easily, and she gives him a smile.

They realize as one that the girl is still there watching them helplessly. Lydia’s face shutters closed. “It’s fifty dollars. Cash. I’ll pencil you in on the day of, one-thirty. It’ll take half an hour. You’ll come to my house.”

“Great, thanks,” the girl says, looking a little stupefied. After a beat, her friends drag her away with all the giddy relief of a group that’s gotten a “yes” from a crush. Except maybe with undercurrents of apprehension in place of joy.

“You don’t _have_ to pencil her in, Pat McGrath,” Stiles remarks offhand as he leans back against an adjoining locker. “It’s not like you need the money.”

The argument is so familiar that Stiles could probably perform both sides. “It’s not about the money,” Lydia retorts, slamming the locker door shut as he mouths the words. “It’s about _entrepreneurship._ ”

“Pretty sure you mispronounced ‘fear and awe,’” Stiles mutters under his breath.

The thing is, Lydia and Stiles are _kind of_ popular, in that they’re providing essential services that make people want to keep them around. Stiles will fix your grades, for a fee, and Lydia will do the same for your face. And Lydia’s not wrong: they do these things in addition to the occasional opportunistic and mildly entrepreneurial ventures, like a limited stint selling banned candy bars out of Lydia’s chic oversized jacket. Just to buck the rules. Just because they can.

They’re also kind of popular in the way that makes a person untouchable. Messing with them, after all, fucks up the market for everyone else. But the real reason you’ll spend the year looking over your shoulder isn’t the couple hundred schoolmates you’ve pissed off.

It’s because Lydia and Stiles have a bit of a reputation. People whisper. And you won’t know how it comes back to you, but you can bet it will.

Today, they’re early for lunch by twenty minutes—the sophomores are still eating—which means they can grab food without having to deal with the mad rush on garlic bread. They sit where they always do, at the corner table by the window. Alone. Because the truth is, Stiles and Lydia will fix other people’s shit, but that’s as much interaction with their peers as they want. The two of them aren’t so popular that you’d willingly partner with them on a class project, or purposely sit next to them in class, or even invite them to your party.

And it doesn’t matter, because they prefer things that way. Their friendship is built on several shared traits, and one of them is a mutual distaste for the same things. In particular, most other people.

When the other seniors begin trickling in, Greenberg approaches the table just as they settle down. He’s Stiles’ most frequent client because he’s a god-awful note-taker who can’t organize a five-paragraph essay for the life of him, but Stiles isn’t in the mood to deal with anyone else right now. As one, he and Lydia stare him down, and he turns with his tail tucked between his legs.

“That was probably mean,” Stiles observes. “Was that mean?”

Lydia shrugs. “ _Self-care isn’t selfish_ ,” she chirps, but her tone is dripping with irony. Stiles snorts, recognizing one of the airy platitudes on the kitchen wall of the Martin house, one of many designed to make the space a _Home, Sweet Home_.

Stiles blames his ADHD, but his mind keeps circling back to winter formal. Or, not winter formal specifically, but the whole curfew part of it. “Do you think they’re ever gonna find them?” he wonders curiously.

“Who?” Lydia asks, picking the olives out of her salad.

“Those missing women? Kate Argent and Laura Hale. I mean, it’s been months. Last I heard, they said it might be linked to those other murders. You know, those randos and the bus driver.”

Lydia takes a long time to reply, casting her gaze around the cafeteria. “I don’t know,” she says at last. “The whole thing’s weird. Does your dad ever talk about them at home?”

“I mean…” Stiles begins slowly. “No. Or like, as much as we ever talk about anything, which is basically not at all. I know he’s stressing about it, though. He’s never around now, as opposed to barely around.”

Lydia frowns. “They disappeared four days apart, near the preserve. The news reports said there were signs of animal activity at first, right? But the cops don’t have any suspects.” She glances at him and repeats, “I don’t know. It’s weird.”

There’s something strange in her face, an anxiety Stiles can’t name. “What’s up?” Stiles asks carefully. “You’re never into murder-y stuff like this. That’s usually my rabbit hole. You painted your nails the whole time we watched _The Staircase_.”

“That’s because this is _weird,_ weird _._ And also because not all of us can be complete true crime whack jobs,” Lydia sniffs. Pushing her tray away, she adds, “But I do think it’s _something_ that they went missing two months back. Right around the time your sleepwalking got bad.”

“My sleepwalking has been bad forever. I used to scare the crap out of dad when I was little, remember? It was nuts right after mom died.”

“Four times in a month?”

“Well...that’s new. Probably used to be that many in a year,” Stiles admits, rubbing his nose. “And it never got me all the way out of the house. But I don’t think it’s connected to like...some killer in the woods or something.”

“What’s your theory, then?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Well, until you do, it looks like mine is the best option.”

She’s peering across the cafeteria now. The remainder of their classmates have just begun to trickle in for lunch. Stiles follows her gaze.

Among the crowd is a relatively new group of _something_ —Jackson Whittemore, Vernon Boyd, Scott McCall, and then a blonde girl and guy Stiles doesn’t know. They don’t seem to be friends, exactly, at least not all of them. Stiles isn’t sure what gives him that impression. But they don’t seem like the kind of group that forms out of mutual appreciation; they’re more like a group of students that’s been randomly assigned to do a project together. Except they stick together in class, out of class, around town, everywhere. It’s weird as fuck.

And Stiles doesn’t know any of them really, except Jackson. Once upon a time, Jackson was an exception to their whole refusal to interact with others, at least for Lydia. (In Stiles’s mind, he’s too much of an asshole for _anyone_ to put up with, especially someone as great as Lydia.) She’d had an on-again, off-again thing with him that suddenly and inexplicably cooled. Jackson grew distant; Lydia still pretends not to be hurt by it.

(Once upon a time, he and Lydia made a blood pact to jointly take down anyone who wronged either of them. This has since been formally extended to cover boyfriends. Stiles would love to mess with Jackson, but Lydia still has a soft spot for him.)

As the group assignment quintet draws past their table, trays in hand, Stiles notices them sniffing the air in a way that’s probably meant to be a subtle insult, like he and Lydia stink or something. Lydia’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline, and she glances his way, incredulous.

“And people say _we’re_ the fucking weirdos,” Stiles remarks, idly stabbing into his styrofoam tray.

~*~

Stiles and Lydia have a friendship built on several traits, and one of them is trust. Lydia knows his deepest, darkest secrets: his crumbling relationship with his dad, his sleepwalking, what his ex-therapist _really_ thinks about him. He knows Lydia’s: the voices in her head, the absent parents, the nearly self-destructive need to succeed. Not to mention that they’ve teamed up to mildly terrorize teachers and neighbors and peers all their lives.

The two of them keep their secrets. And each other’s. Without asking questions.

So when Lydia knocks at Stiles’s door that evening to tell him she knows where there’s a dead body in the woods, he slips on his sneakers instead of calling the cops.

Stiles’s dad is MIA. There’s a note on the refrigerator promising that he’ll go to the grocery in the morning, and will Stiles please make a list of anything he needs. Stiles scribbles a note back on the remote chance his dad returns to find the house empty: _All-nighter with Lydia. Be back tomorrow._

“What kind of vision?”

“It wasn’t a _vision,_ ” Lydia says in exasperation, waving one hand a little frantically as she drives. Her ponytail is a lopsided mess, and her puffy Tired Eyes™ are back with a vengeance. “It was a—I don’t know. I heard the voices talking in my head. Like normal. And then I just knew where they were. It didn’t—there wasn’t a _picture_ in my head, but I could picture the bodies because I knew where they were, like I put them in the ground myself.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Wait. You didn’t _actually_ put anything in the ground, though, did you?”

Lydia shoots him a look. Stiles raises his hands in a pacifying gesture before her words catch up with him. “Wait, ‘they?’”

“They,” she agrees grimly.

“ _They_ ,” Stiles parrots. The evening is winding toward night, with a golden ember sky to the west. They crest over a hill on Westgrove, where the suburbs grow sparse and, farther off, the woods of the Beacon Hills Preserve begin. “So...where are ‘they,’ exactly?”

“Let’s just say you’ll recognize the place.”

They park the car in the lot at the White Alder Trailhead, not far from where Lydia picked him up two nights ago. It’s only after a quarter of an hour of silent walking that the landmarks become clear—a stump here, a moss-covered tree there, a vernal pool ringed with late-season daisies. If everything were washed out with moonlight instead of dappled in fading sun, it would look exactly as it had the night before.

“This is near where we were yesterday,” Stiles murmurs, shuffling over a fallen log. His stomach has been doing somersaults as they’ve gone deeper into the trees. “Where I walked.”

Lydia nods without replying. She stops abruptly in a clearing, where a shallow depression in the earth has collected some of last week’s heavy rainfall. The ground is soft underfoot, the grass choked with mud. He can tell from her expression that this place is why they’re out here.

 _It would be easy to bury a body here_ , Stiles thinks, swallowing. _After a little rain, no one would know where the dirt was disturbed._

It’s not exactly where Stiles woke up, but it’s close—maybe a few minutes’ walk away. His breathing quickens, and Lydia steps closer to gently squeeze his arm. He takes a minute to struggle back to composure. Having a panic attack out here would really suck. “How sure are you?” he asks at last.

“I don’t know,” Lydia admits. “That’s why I guess I wanted you with me. To see if it’s possible someone was here, and if it really was the same place you were. I mean, I don’t really want to dig. But it looks like fresh dirt to you too, doesn’t it? And…” As one, they gaze back down at the muddy ground. “I think it’s a grave,” she continues firmly. “And I think there are two of them here, one buried first and the other sometime later, just beside her. I know it was an animal that did it—the killing part, anyway—but it’s not like any animal I’ve ever seen.” She’s forgotten she’s holding his arm. Her grip has grown tight.

“What do you mean?”

“It was a wolf, but...huge. Black. With red eyes.”

“There aren’t any wolves in California,” Stiles says slowly. “Not for years.”

“No wolves like this,” Lydia agrees.

Stiles’s gaze flows up and down the dirt almost unconsciously, looking for signs of _something._ Mud piles, paw prints, an X to mark the spot.Anything that could clarify what the fuck is going on.

So much in his life is unexplainable right now. Some days, he doesn’t know what he believes—whether his dreams are just manifestations of subconscious worries like his therapist (ex-therapist) insists. Or whether they’re linked to the dreams his mom had before she died, the reason his dad can’t bear to hear any of Stiles’s dreams nowadays. Or whether they’re something _more_. Something supernatural. Whether they’re connected to whatever Lydia’s got going on, whether Lydia’s shit is real or in her head, whether they’re both out of their fucking minds.

 _Folie à deux,_ he thinks, a little hysterically. _Like that one episode of_ The X-Files. _But hopefully not as deadly._

Even now, he doesn’t know what he believes in. But he believes in Lydia. And if this connection means they’re going down in flames together, at least the company will be good.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He gently pries her hand from his arm, squeezes it, and leads her back toward the road.

~*~

“We’re not saying anything,” Lydia cautions. “To anyone.”

After a bit of confusion and a short detour, they’ve nearly picked their way back to the car. The trailhead is just through the trees farther off. Neither of them has said as much, but Stiles thinks they’re both a little relieved to see the glint of a windshield through the dark branches.

“Anonymous tip,” he counters. “We don’t get involved, but they get...found. They deserve that much. I can do it this evening.”

“Okay, you handle it,” Lydia agrees. She glances back from where they’d come, as if their winding walk hasn’t been quite enough to wipe the memory of the mud-choked hollow from her mind. “This is weirder than normal. For both of us. All of a sudden, you’re out in the woods all the time, and I’m hearing voices that…that… ”

Stiles swallows. “Yeah.”

From beside them, there’s a rustle of leaves too purposeful to be the wind. The two of them jump, Stiles’s heart thumping, ready for—a wolf, a ghost, _something._ But it’s a man who slinks from the undergrowth two yards away, his strides purposeful and steady. He ventures closer, stopping a yard short of the right distance to reach them, to lunge.

“You’re supposed to greet the alpha who holds a territory,” he says mildly, his eyes flashing red, brightly enough that Stiles knows he didn’t imagine it. “It’s only polite.”

He’s somewhere over thirty, Stiles guesses, and he’s got what people would probably call rugged good looks: broad shoulders and a V-neck shirt that shows off the muscle definition of his chest. But he’s also got a sly look to him, with the way his mouth cuts a slant across his face—and then he opens that mouth to show off teeth that jut down like sharp fangs. The man’s hands are at his sides, his fingers _tapering into long claws what the fuck._

“Oh my god, we weren’t gonna tell anyone please don’t kill us,” Stiles blurts, grabbing Lydia’s arm and stumbling back. Lydia’s hand is already in her pocket, where Stiles knows she’s clutching her phone. Stiles has a taser and Lydia has mace, but they both live in the glove compartment of Lydia’s car. Which is within running distance. They’re not athletes, but they’re fast. But that only works if this guy is human, though the odds don’t look great. And that’s not something Stiles ever thought he’d have to worry about.

The man’s gaze flickers thoughtfully between them. His teeth slip away somehow, and when Stiles looks at his fingers, they’re blunt again. Human. “Unless...you’re not new to the territory?” He cocks his head, slipping from fearsome to amused in the time it takes his smirk to unfurl. “Or unless you don’t even know what a territory is?”

“It’s definitely the last one,” Stiles offers helpfully, nudging Lydia toward the car as discreetly as he can. He stumbles a little, wincing. The man doesn’t make any move to stop them, or to get closer, but he does drift toward the parking lot more or less at a parallel pace with them, not blocking their way but remaining a short distance to the side.

There’s something unsettling in the way he studies them both. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he remarks, but the accompanying smirk makes it hard to trust the honesty of that statement. “It’s just that you’re flaunting a fairly common rule in the supernatural community. One I thought you were aware of, being part of it yourselves. But you seem to be in the dark, so to speak.”

There’s a _lot_ of stuff to unpack there. Glancing toward the car, Stiles is thinking they don’t have time for all of it if they’re gonna make a break for it and live to question everything they know another day. It’s probably not a good idea to full-on sprint, but the guy seems not to mind them inching in the right direction.

But he and Lydia have the tendency to switch off who’s playing the thoughtless dumbass at the moment. Stiles feels like he falls into the role pretty naturally, but every now and then, it’s Lydia who seizes that script with both hands.

“What _are_ you?” she bursts out, stopping short to stare outright at the stranger like a lunatic. She ignores Stiles’s relentless tug of her jacket, because of _course_ now is the right time to go all “knowledge is power” or whatever. “You’re in the...supernatural community? What does that mean?”

He regards her, up and down. Then he brings his hand back up, unsheathing the set of claws again. _Oh, great, confirmation that that was fucking real_ , Stiles thinks, having half-hoped it was just a weird dream bleeding over into reality. The man’s jawline grows suddenly sharper, his brow darkening, teeth elongating, hair growing across the sides of his face. His eyes flash again. And then, just like that, it’s gone once more. He’s just a man, albeit one with a frightfully intense gaze.

“I’m guessing you don’t believe in the supernatural just yet,” he says, watching their faces. They’ve both stopped all attempts at moving, and Stiles imagines Lydia’s wide eyes must be just as stricken as his own. “But you’d best wrap your minds around it. Because that’s what you are.”

“That’s...what?” Stiles replies stupidly, flailing his arms. “We’re not—I mean, we’re _definitely_ not—”

“My name is Peter,” the man interrupts. “I’m the alpha werewolf of the Beacon Hills Territory. It’s customary for supernaturals in a territory to make themselves known to the alpha. Trust me: you’re both _something._ It’s just a matter of what _._ ”

Following this statement is a stunned silence in which Peter regards them with the same annoyingly cool gaze, and in which Stiles and Lydia’s minds reboot after the new _werewolves_ update.

“Okay. Sure. Werewolves are real,” Stiles breathes. “Why not?” Then, in a hiss to Lydia, “Hey, are we actually buying that?”

“How do we _not_ buy it?” Lydia mutters incredulously out of the corner of her mouth. “Did _you_ see what I just did?”

“Just asking for the record. Oh shit, werewolves are fucking _real_.”

Lydia exhales and then raises her chin defiantly. “Let’s say we actually believe you. How do you know we’re—something like you?”

“Your smell alone tells me,” Peter scoffs. “You smell like…” he shrugs. “Well, it doesn’t really translate for human noses. And also, _you_ ,” he jerks his chin at Stiles, “were on my radar a month before I laid eyes on you. I could smell you all over half the territory. Thought you were a threat. Until I saw you blundering all over the place the other night. I thought you only tripped that much because you were asleep, but apparently it’s just who you are.”

Stiles goes from dumbstruck to full-on indignant so fast it almost gives him whiplash. “Hey asshole, that’s just a part of my charm. And—” Peter snorts, and the humanness of it is so startling that Stiles falters for a moment. “— _and anyway,_ how do you even know that’s ‘just who I am?’ Have you been—wait, you’ve been following us this whole time?”

Peter shrugs nonchalantly. “For the past a few minutes, at least. If you don’t know what you are, we can definitely cross out some things off the list. Weres, kitsunes, vampires. If that was you, you’d have heard me behind you and known you were being followed. You’re welcome.”

“Gee, thanks, _so_ glad you did this out of the goodness of your—”

Like an actual savage, Lydia grinds her heel onto Stiles’s foot. “Alright. What do you want from us?”

“And none of the ‘come say hi’ bullshit,” Stiles adds, letting his irritation take root in place of the wary fear threatening to settle over him again. “Why were you _really_ following us?”

Shrugging, Peter shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’ll admit, I’d very much like to know how you found what you did.”

“How we found—?”

“You smelled us,” Lydia says, and it comes out something like an accusation. “You just tracked us from where we left the...” she trails off, glancing behind them. Stiles realizes the path her mind has gone down. A great black wolf, killing Laura Hale and Kate Argent and burying the bodies. And then a polite, sly-faced, humanoid werewolf introducing himself just yards from their ride home.

Their fear must show on their faces. Peter inclines his head. “You’ve seen something unusual,” he replies kindly, but there’s something sharp about his smile still. “Something you don’t understand. But it’s not what it looks like. I need you to trust me on that.”

Lydia shakes her head fiercely, and Stiles knows _that_ expression. She’s burning for answers right now. She gets this way sometimes, so determined to root out something true, some solution, that she won’t stop until she’s done.

He also knows it’s his job to be the reasonable one when she’s gone feral, it’s getting darker every second, and they’re standing here in the woods with a literal _werewolf_. And he’d kind of like to be alive in the morning. So he plants an elbow in her side before she can speak again. “Look, this is great. This is seriously great. We’re thrilled that one lunatic is telling both of us lunatics that we’re somehow...not lunatics. And trust me, it would be great to like, learn more about whatever you know, or something, because I’d love to not have to seriously consider sleeping with hiking boots in _addition_ to a cell phone. But if you’re gonna kill us, can you just, like, do it another time, because this is creepy as fuck and I’d rather die under the sun or possibly not at all, thanks.”

Peter’s face is alight with amusement. It’s strange the way it softens the sharpness of his smirk. “That’s fair,” he concedes. “Why don’t we meet another time? Under the sun, of course.”

Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Are you serious? Or is this just a ploy to get us to relax?”

The smirk widens. “I am...not sure how to answer that. Just consider it a gesture of goodwill in exchange for frightening you.”

Stiles bristles at the condescension in his tone, but Lydia takes command. “Meet us at Fine Grinds,” she orders abruptly. “Four-thirty tomorrow afternoon.” She says it in her no-argument tone of voice, like she might use to set up a makeup appointment. Peter doesn’t seem to mind.

“Very public,” he offers almost approvingly, the condescending prick _._ “Good choice.”

“Great,” Stiles says, throwing his hands up. “So. We done here? No one’s eating anyone? No? Good. Let’s go, Lyds.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t tell anyone what you’ve seen or guessed,” Peter interrupts, before they can even move. There’s a vicious glint to his gaze. “Not everyone understands the supernatural world, and it might be hard to believe. And you yourselves don’t know the full story.”

Stiles stares at him warily. “And if we do tell someone?”

Peter gives another shrug. “I suppose it will be too late for me to do anything about it,” he says pleasantly.

Lydia nods. Then, she takes Stiles’s hand. Carefully, and without really taking their eyes off of Peter, they make their way back toward the car. True to his word, Peter doesn’t move to follow them, nor does he retreat into the trees—as if he wants them to see him standing still. To know that he’s not a threat. Stiles still doesn’t like his smile, though.

He counts it among the few true miracles in his life that they make it back to the car without feeling sharp teeth sink into their flesh. Lydia peels out of the parking lot with perhaps a bit more speed than warranted, given that Peter is no longer visible through the foliage and the darkening shadows. Her hands fidget on the wheel.

Not until several minutes later, when they get out from under the black branches of the tree-lined preserve, do they really breathe. Familiar signs of normalcy gradually calm them down: picket fences crawling with ivy, evening joggers thumping along sidewalks, street lights spilling patches of gold across the asphalt.

“Oh my _god!_ ” Lydia blurts at last.

“Holy shit. What just happened?” Then, running a hand through his hair: “I don’t like this. We don’t know who he is, or what he knows.”

“We—well, that’s the point, isn’t it? He knows more than we do,” Lydia retorts. “So it doesn’t matter. We need to figure out what’s going on, what’s going on with _us._ ”

“He could be anyone, Lyds. He could just be meeting us to...to take something from us, or get information for some evil plan...I don’t know. I don’t know!” Stiles flails his arms frantically, too anxious to keep still. “We don’t know anything about supernatural stuff, and he’s a fucking _werewolf_ (holy fuck wow), and he could do some kind of...I don’t know, voodoo magic thing? And we’d have no fucking clue what he was up to or how to stop it.”

“We’re meeting him at _Fine Grinds,_ ” she says incredulously. “What’s he going to do to us at a _cafe_?”

Stiles absolutely can’t believe _he’s_ the one who has to be the voice of reason on this. (Honestly, this particular role reversal at this exact moment is a little unfair, and he will at some point make sure it’s on record that he resents it very much.) “Look, I don’t _know_ , Lydia! I don’t know. But I’d rather not meet a potential serial killer even just over coffee, you know?”

“He didn’t do anything to us back in the woods!”

“That doesn’t mean he _never_ will! Aren’t you the one who always says you can’t predict outcomes based on one data point?”

“This isn’t what I meant!”

Their voices have begun to climb, both of them glaring at each other in moments when Lydia can rip her eyes from the road, and they only realize it when Lydia stops short at a red light. She idles there for a minute or two, even when the light turns green, before she starts toward home again.

“Okay. Look. I get it,” Stiles begins, taking a deep breath after a few minutes to think. “I want to know what’s wrong with me, too. Do you think I’m super happy about, like...my dad thinking I’m one step away from ‘going crazy’ like mom, because she used to have weird dreams about that forest? Do you think I like waking up and being _terrified,_ not just because I’m in the woods in the middle of the night but because I...I don’t know myself, or why this is happening to me?”

“I just want to understand,” Lydia pleads. “I’m so sick of hearing voices all the time, and not knowing if they’re real. And of being in that house _,_ all the time, with all these whispers, and mom and dad are halfway around the world and I’m just _alone_. And when that vision, or not-vision, whatever you call it...when that came, that was it. I’m done. I’m done _not knowing._ ”

Stiles runs a hand over his face again, up his forehead, into his hair. He keeps his eyes closed for a while, until he feels the car turn and roll into Lydia’s driveway.

He knows that Lydia will _definitely_ keep arguing with him about this. Especially if it looks like he’s on the fence. She’s like a terrier that way, unwilling to let anything go if there’s someone whose mind she can change. But Stiles also knows that if he adamantly refuses now she’ll drop it, at least where he’s concerned—though she probably won’t stop researching Peter on her own to get answers.

He can’t let her do that alone, though. And when it comes down to it, Stiles needs those answers too. And even if the way forward is unclear—and probably dangerous, to boot—he trusts Lydia. He trusts the two of them _together_ to figure this out.

“Okay,” he sighs at last. “Let’s do it.”

Lydia turns to him, unbuckles her seatbelt, and pulls him into an awkward, crushing hug. For someone as distinctively _not_ touchy-feely as Lydia Martin, it’s kind of a big deal.

“But if I’m his next murder victim,” he mumbles into her shoulder, “I will haunt you forever from beyond the grave. And since you’ll be able to hear me, that’s not even an empty threat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original idea for this was an angsty one-shot about a rocky alliance between Stiles, Lydia, and Peter. Now it’s gonna be several chapters long and WAY more fluffy than anticipated, because I’m learning that I’m incapable of writing angst. 
> 
> Side note, we’ll see in the next chapter or two why Peter’s being so non-canonically nice to them...although I guess I don’t exactly have to make excuses for this because it’s clearly an AU, so everyone’s OOC lol. But his character is the most changed, and I’m reimagining him as slightly saner than he was in the beginning of the series.
> 
> That’s it! If you’re into this, comments or kudos would be awesome. Thanks for reading!


	2. Serial Killer Coffee Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The café’s busy with the mid-afternoon rush of kids from the nearby middle school, plus people trickling in from the offices across the street. Peter wanders in exactly on time, looking briefly about the crowded café floor. His face sprouts a slanted smile when he sees them, like they’re just here for a business meeting or something, like he’s not a walking man of mystery.

Stiles and Lydia’s friendship was built on many things, and one of them is this: they’re a united front. Always.

In first grade, Lydia’s family lived in the same house they live in now, except that they had neighbors who weren’t yet accustomed to the particular Martin brand of pride and vanity. 

At the time, Lydia’s sixth birthday promised to be a spectacle of nearly ludicrous proportions. (Through the lens of hindsight, Stiles now understands it to be her parents’ attempt to overcompensate for their near-constant absence from Lydia’s life. At the time, though? It had just been _cool_.) There would be a stable of ponies for rides down the cul-de-sac, a four-tiered cake in alternating flavors at the center of a pop-up outdoor tea room, a butterfly and ladybug zoo set up in the garden, and a tiny stage constructed in the street for a fairy-tale theater performance. It was everything every kid ever wanted in a party, provided they had Lydia Martin’s expensive tastes.

Or at least, it would have been that way if one of their snooty old neighbors, Mr. Bradshaw, hadn’t caught wind of the plan the day of, complaining to the HOA for a host of broken rules. 

The end result: the party shifted to a tiny (but still fashionably stuffy) get-together. No pony rides. No tea room. No insect zoo. No theater performance.

Even at the tender age of six, Lydia was the type to veer toward _bitter_ instead of heartbroken. Especially after persistent tantrums didn’t have the desired effect. 

Stiles can still remember her to this day, two identical cherry-tomato buns on top of her head, face pink with anger. She nurtured that grudge for days, and Stiles nurtured his own out of solidarity. Though there were few actions the two of them could take in the world of adults, they did at last land upon something small and petty they could take away. Something all the Martins’ ridiculously status-conscious neighbors couldn’t ignore.

Every day for weeks after the party, she and Stiles (and, Stiles supposes, the nanny who minded them at Lydia’s, though he only vaguely remembers the woman’s frown of wary disapproval) walked to the park to pick cottony white dandelions. Which they deliberately blew all over the grass the Bradshaws had recently brought up from an expensive exotic sod, careful to make sure the seeds didn’t blow onto adjacent lawns. 

It was a small thing. A childish thing. But in it, they had learned the triumph of a plan well executed.

With a newly born habit of walking up and down the neighborhood sidewalks in the afternoons (“for exercise,” they proclaimed loudly to anyone listening), they watched Mr. Bradshaw’s growing confusion and fury at his blooming, butter-yellow lawn. They heard irate calls to and in-person shouting matches with his sod installers (and what a thing, Stiles had thought—having someone come in to install your _grass_ ). They laid low for the days when he paid to have the turf across the expansive yard yanked up and a fresh layer put down. 

And then they went back to the park for more dandelions.

The Bradshaws currently have the only home in the neighborhood with a rock garden in the front yard. To this day, Stiles and Lydia have to fight back grins when they walk past.

.

When they meet Peter-the-werewolf the following day, they present their typical united front. Even in spite of Stiles’s reservations and Lydia’s disquiet.

At four, they’re waiting at a booth by the window, backs to the wall, sipping the last of their coffees. Staying as calm and collected as it’s possible to be under the circumstances. Because honestly, if shit goes down, there’s no one better to scrabble out from under it with.

The café’s busy with the mid-afternoon rush of kids from the nearby middle school, plus people trickling in from the offices across the street. Peter wanders in exactly on time, looking briefly about the crowded café floor. His face sprouts a slanted smile when he sees them, like they’re just here for a business meeting or something, like he’s not a walking man of mystery. Stiles wonders if that ease is because he really _is_ only here to compare notes, or just because he knows no one here can possibly hurt him.

He guesses it’s the latter.

“I expected to be stood up,” Peter remarks, sinking into the booth opposite them.

Lydia’s face is blank. A notebook sits open in front of her, waiting, and she pulls it a little closer. “We agreed we’d meet.”

“I wasn’t sure I’d laid all of your concerns to rest,” Peter replies. “I also realized I don’t think I caught your names yesterday. You have mine.”

“Not all of it,” Stiles rejoins.

“Lydia Martin,” Lydia says at the same time, folding her hands together over the notebook’s blank page.

Stiles stifles a sigh. “Stiles Stilinski.”

At this, Peter’s sharp gaze darts over to Stiles. “Stilinski? As in, Sheriff Stilinski? In that case, I’m even more surprised,” he says coolly. “I’m not sure whether I’d call it courageous or stupid to meet an unknown werewolf, even in public, but you’d think the son of the local law enforcement would have better judgement. You’re lucky that werewolf is me.” 

Stiles is getting sick of this man’s whole smug vibe. “We’re not _idiots_ ,” he retorts waspishly. “This place got robbed a couple months ago, so they upped their security. There’s a camera on us right now. Lydia’s car is right out the front door, in view of the camera at the bank across the street. We’re getting into it when we’re done and going straight home. And full disclosure, we both scheduled text messages to our parents explaining who we’re meeting, where we are, what time we planned to sit down with you, and that they should look for us if we don’t show up this evening. They’ll go out in an hour unless we delete them first.”

“We also have some silver jewelry,” Lydia adds helpfully, “but that’s a _very_ last resort, obviously.”

Peter stares for a long time before answering. At last, he says, “And you’re also sitting with your backs to the wall. So you can see what’s going on in the rest of the café.” He makes a surprised face Stiles instantly likes, and not just because it makes him feel satisfied to have put it there: it’s something gentler and less sharp than his other annoying expressions. “And I’m sure you’ve noticed the emergency exit behind you.”

Lydia raises her phone and snaps a picture of his face before he can object. “For the texts,” she explains, without pulling her eyes from the screen.

“It would have been nice to look you up, too, but there are lots of Peters in Beacon Hills,” Stiles adds with a shrug. “What did you say your name was again?”

Peter again regards him with consideration. Stiles knows this security precaution issue is the part where things could go wrong, if they _are_ going to go wrong. They have to take safety measures, but making this stranger feel betrayed could be enough to make him lash out.

That’s not what happens, though. At last, the werewolf seems to decide he doesn’t mind the surprise, at least if the answering smirk is anything to go by. “Hale is the last name,” he replies, setting his elbows on the table to study them both with renewed interest. It makes Stiles feel like a beetle suffocating on a pin.

“Hale,” Lydia repeats, frowning. “Wait, as in...”

“As in ‘Hale fire’ Peter Hale?” Stiles guesses. “Or that dead girl—like, ‘Laura Hale’ Peter Hale?”

“I was going to say, like ‘The Hale Preserve’ Peter Hale.”

“Oh. That’s...maybe more tactful,” Stiles realizes, looking at Peter a little abashedly. He’s got his own family tragedy—a smaller one, to be sure, but still a tragedy—and he knows how it feels to have someone throw it in your face. “Uh, sorry,” he adds after a beat.

“I’ve heard worse.” 

“So. Peter Hale.” Lydia’s pen hovers over the crisp white page of the notebook. For all intents and purposes, she could just be a student sitting down to study, rather than a _supernatural question mark_ interviewing a full-on mythical werewolf. “We’d like to know what you know.”

“That’s quite a lot,” Peter quips. When neither of them share his amusement, he sags in feigned disappointment and then tilts his head in thought. “Alright. Well. First, sorry to disappoint, but silver isn’t a weakness of werewolves.” He pauses. Smiles beatifically. “I guess that’s a terrible place to start.”

Regardless, Lydia is already writing it down. 

“Start with the dead bodies,” Stiles suggests helpfully. “ _Are_ there dead bodies?”

Peter regards them both suspiciously for a moment. His eyes flit behind him, but he seems to decide that the loud hum of the diner’s crowd is certainly enough to mask the conversation taking place in its corner. “Of course,” he says at last, his voice low and grim. “The ones you mentioned only yesterday.”

“You—just so we’re clear— _you_ killed—”

Peter’s face has lost all signs of mocking amusement, going suddenly sharp. “She deserved what happened.” It’s not a real answer, but for the first time since the werewolf stepped out of the trees with fangs long enough to kill, Stiles can absolutely believe that Peter Hale is dangerous. He and Lydia both discreetly lean away, backs touching the padded booth behind them. Peter seems to realize how he must appear, or at least he decides to regain control of himself, because he tones down the glare. “The Hale fire wasn’t an accident. Kate Argent is a member of a group of hunters, people who hunt werewolves. People who think we’re animals to be put down. She burned down the entire house, with my family inside, to kill as many of us as she possibly could.”

He says this matter-of-factly, as if they’re discussing the weather. Stiles wonders if it’s a way to spit it out without thinking about his grief, or if it’s just a totally normal thing among werewolves to discuss the circumstances of your family’s murder in casual conversation.

Stiles himself is having a hard time being casual about it. “Holy fuck. That’s why the fire—it was _intentional?_ ” The Hale fire is the stuff of local legend, an entire family dying in flames in the dark of night. It warps his entire worldview to know that it wasn’t an accidental blaze.

Lydia exhales slowly. “Okay. So you killed her for it.”

“And everyone else involved,” Peter agrees. His eyes have once more grown cold. “The arsonists, the insurance agent who covered it up. They killed my pack, and they got away with it. No one would touch them. So I made sure they paid for their mistakes.”

Stiles and Lydia are both staring. Peter doesn’t seem discomforted by their stricken expressions. But if arson is what really happened, it’s also something Stiles suddenly thinks he can buy into. Something he can understand. He doesn’t have a wolf pack or a huge family, but if anyone murdered his father or Lydia in cold blood, in a way that made them suffer every agonizing second, he’s not sure what he might do about it. Maybe not kill them outright, not like Peter must have done with Kate, but…

He realizes his mouth is open, and he closes it slowly. “So, it’s true,” he says at last. “You’re Lydia’s wolf. I mean, not _Lydia’s_ wolf, but the wolf Lydia saw, the black wolf who killed Kate. And Laura?”

“Why did you kill _Laura_?” Lydia asks shrewdly. “She was your family, your...your ‘pack.’ Wasn’t she?”

Peter’s eyes close. “You know about the Hale fire. Everyone does. But do you know what happened to me afterward? It was in the news, though not as many of the papers ran with it.” He smiles, but it looks more like a grimace. “And in a small town like this, word gets around.”

As one, they shake their heads. 

“I was comatose. I lost _years_. When I broke out of it, I...was out of my mind for days. I blamed my own pack and our allies for what had happened, my sister Talia for letting us stay weak. Before everything else, I lashed out at a rogue alpha we used to be allied with, tracking him just across the border into his territory—though like most lone alphas, he was half feral himself. And then I lashed out at Laura. Just by extension. _Before_ I remembered who was really to blame. Before I made them pay. It wasn’t until later that I really even understood what I’d done.”

They’re all quiet for a long time.

Stiles runs his thumb back and forth across the cardboard sleeve on his coffee. This stranger is convincing, he thinks. But is that only because they don’t know him well enough to tell when he’s lying? “There’s no way for us to know if we can trust a word you’ve said,” he states at last. 

“I understand that,” Peter replies, inclining his head. “But I don’t have anything else to offer.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Lydia says this to Stiles, not to Peter. “We’re not here for this.”

Stiles nods. Learning about Peter’s past is irrelevant to their plan: they have to get what they need from Peter now and cut off contact. If he darkens their doorstep at some future point, they get a restraining order. Or figure some type of restraining order that _does_ work on werewolves.

“So. What are _we_?” Stiles asks Peter, turning to face him again.

“I hardly know anything about you both. I can only guess,” Peter replies, with false modesty. The sharp grin is back, and if he’s taken aback by the change of subject, he doesn’t show it. 

“Please do,” Lydia says. She’s unusually tense, her spine taut as though her mother’s barked at her about her posture again. 

Peter stares at her keenly. “You know things. Things other people have no idea about.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “If you’re just here to tell us how smart she is—” 

“ _And_ you found the dead body of a person you’d never met, freshly buried in the ground, without knowing anything about it,” Peter continues as though Stiles hadn’t interrupted. “Am I close? I thought I heard you mention voices back in the woods, so I imagine you’ve been getting auditory premonitions. That would track.”

“I thought they might be hallucinations,” Lydia replies slowly. “But if they’re real, I thought...maybe they really _are_ ghosts? Or spirits? If you make another ghost whispererjoke I’ll kill you,” she adds, before Stiles can open his mouth.

Peter nods slowly. “And if I’m guessing correctly, you’ve probably also been screaming.” He cocks his head as though waiting for confirmation. 

“Screaming?” Stiles repeats in alarm, looking at Lydia. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lydia presses her lips together, taking a moment to think before she responds. “I did scream. I used to. Back when all those voices started. It was so loud, and honestly I just thought I was losing my mind,” she adds under her breath, glancing briefly at Stiles.

“Okay. Screaming. Cool, cool, cool.” Stiles turns back to the werewolf, a bit more worried now. “So, what’s it all mean?”

“I’d guess you’re a banshee. Someone with the power to predict death, to understand it on a level normal humans can’t. I don’t know the details of the top of my head, but I could get more information for you.”

It’s a tantalizing prospect, but it also defeats the whole idea of a one-and-done meeting with this guy—and Peter probably knows it. 

Rather than being weirded out by the confirmation that yes, she literally hears dead people, Lydia only looks hungry. She considers for a long moment before glancing at Stiles, but it’s an argument they’ll need to have another time. She presses her lips together. “And Stiles?” she demands. “What about him?”

“Stilesis a little more difficult to pin down,” Peter replies. “There are a few possibilities. Maybe you can tell me more about what you’ve experienced?”

The man leans forward in interest, as though he’s making an effort to appear candid and helpful. It makes Stiles suspicious—but he also doesn’t feel like he has much of a choice. After an instant of hesitation, he sighs and begins to detail all the weird stuff that’s happened to him—the occasional sleepwalking, the ongoing fatigue, the strange dreams. 

At the end of this, Peter nods. “Involuntary sleepwalking, plus the vivid dreams...it’s fairly uncommon in the supernatural world. The fact that you aren’t doing it on purpose, to divine a location or something like that, makes it more likely that someone or something’s taking advantage of your magic.”

“Uh, I think you lost me. I don’t have any magic.”

“I’d wager that you do,” Peter counters. “Untapped, untrained magic. I’d wager you’re what’s called a _spark—_ basically, someone with the power to do magic and none of the training to actually try it.” At Stiles’s uncomprehending look, he tries a different tactic. Tapping the top of Lydia’s notebook, now half full of scribbled notes, he adds, “Think of it like this: a spark is a blank page. Through training, you can choose how you write your own story. You can decide what kind of magic you invest it in. Maybe you want to go into divination, or moon magic. You make that decision, and you write the details on your paper.”

Stiles struggles to process all of this. “But I haven’t made any decisions,” he murmurs eventually. “I don’t even— _didn’t_ even know I could do magic. _If_ I can.” 

“That’s why I said _involuntary_ sleepwalking _._ ”

“And so someone is doing it _to_ him?” Lydia adds shrewdly, frowning.

“Yes. If you don’t cultivate your own power—write on the paper, to continue the analogy—then someone else may be able to write on it for you. If they know how.”

Peter grows silent, allowing the two of them to take this in. Stiles stomach has dropped in an unsettling way, but it also feels like he shouldn’t have had that last coffee, like he needs to move around to get rid of his excess energy. 

“How do I make it stop?” he asks desperately.

Peter shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if you can. It might be that it’s irreversible. Depending on who’s done it and why. The story’s already been written, and your spark’s already accounted for, even if you didn’t choose it yourself.”

“What? No, there _has_ to be something else,” Lydia bites out.

“ _Or,_ ” Peter says slowly, “I suppose it’s possible to train yourself. To write on your own paper. To edit. Maybe that’s all it takes to make it stop.”

Stiles isn’t sure whether Peter actually believes this, or whether he’s just saying it to satisfy Lydia’s imperious look. 

“It happened to my mom, too,” he blurts suddenly, frowning down at the table. Peter and Lydia both turn back to stare at him. “The same thing. Before she died. Do you think it’s...like, is there a connection? Was she…?”

Peter shakes his head. “It’s impossible to know,” he replies. “A spark’s magic doesn’t necessarily flow through bloodlines. But if it’s true, there’s a chance that whatever calls you in the night was calling your mother before you. Especially if she happened to be a spark too, and an untrained one at that.”

Lydia reaches under the table to squeeze Stiles’s hand. “But if that’s true,” she reasons, “Claudia must not have known what she was, or if there was a way to stop it. But things are different now. _We’ll_ figure out what’s going on. And we’ll stop it before things get bad.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees. She takes her hand away to scribble more notes, and he clears his throat, trying to get the topic behind them. “So, what...what do we do about this?” He pauses, then adds impulsively, “What would _you_ do?”

Peter regards them for a long moment. “That’s why I’m here to talk to you. You have some decisions to make.”

“What’s that mean?”

Instead of responding, the werewolf leans back in his seat, lacing long fingers together atop the table. “There’s a pack of werewolves in town,” he says at last.

Stiles blinks at the non sequitur. “Not _your_ pack, you mean?” Lydia clarifies.

At this, Peter’s lips quirk up into a rueful smile that slips away almost as fast as it had appeared. “I don’t technically have one,” he admits. “I’m something of a lone wolf at the moment. So no, not my pack, or the Hale pack that still exists here.”

“You mean the Hale pack that used to belong to Laura?”

“That one. It’s currently headed by my nephew, Derek, who’s been trying to enlarge it by turning some needy little betas, all out of the goodness of his own heart,” Peter sneers. “Humans who _begged_ for the bite. I’m sure you know them. They go to your school, after all.”

“There are werewolves at _school?_ ”

“There are werewolves everywhere. You’d be surprised. It’s—”

“Wait, _who_?”

Peter shrugs again, annoyed. “I haven’t exactly bothered to memorize their names. Though one of them is from the Whittemore family, the one with legal offices downtown.”

“It’s that whole weird group,” Stiles realizes slowly. “Jackson and Boyd and Scott and, uh…that girl…”

“Erica Reyes,” Lydia supplies. “And the Lahey kid.”

“Whoa. They always seemed like they had nothing in common. But I guess what they have in common is that they howl at the full moon.” He frowns, connecting the dots. “Wait...if _you_ can smell that there’s something weird about us, can _they_ smell it?”

Across from them, Peter rolls his eyes. “Who knows? They’re essentially pups. They can barely control their shifts yet. But as I was _saying_ , they aren’t the pack of werewolves you need to watch out for. I don’t know much about the new pack, but I will soon. In the meantime, you should watch your backs.”

“What, why?...Ah. In case we end up wandering through the woods at night in our sleep,” Stiles mutters to himself, troubled.

“Yes, certainly that,” Peter agrees. “But in general, they may be able to smell that there’s something different about the two of you—and they may not be as kind about it as I am. If they realize you have useful powers, they’ll try to get you to join their pack, and they may not give you much of a choice.” 

He pauses. “They don’t have much reason to offer kindness, to be blunt. Several weeks ago, they sent a scout to Beacon Hills, supposedly to chart the territory, though I have the feeling they had other motives. And their envoy kept getting threateningly close to Derek’s new betas. The idiots let him draw them into a fight, where he ended up dying. Which is more than enough reason to call for a war in which they could rightfully take the territory. Add in the rogue alpha I killed earlier this year, and it’s enough to paint quite a picture about the character of the Beacon Hills pack.” He eyes Lydia and Stiles coolly. “Whether or not you’re involved in any of this, refusing their invitation to join may make them inclined to put you out of commission so you can’t be useful to the rest of us.”

Stiles swears under his breath. Peter nods in agreement and continues. “The rest of their pack isn’t stupid, though. They haven’t rushed in, but they’re circling. And they’ve been careful not to show themselves. I haven’t been able to figure out exactly how many there are. Nine at least, but certainly more. “

Lydia has been taking notes, likely out of a restless need for something to do instead of a worry she’ll forget any of this. After a moment, she pauses, toying with the corner of the page. “And what if they try something?”

Peter’s fingers tap a restless beat against the table. “My dear nephew and I don’t see eye to eye on many things,” he begins slowly.

“Is that because you killed his sister?” Stiles blurts before he can help it. He only just manages to pull his foot out of the way before Lydia can stomp on it.

“But we’ll work together to fight them together if they try to take the territory,” he continues, without responding to Stiles. “This is _our_ land, our family’s land. We’re united on that, at least. And we won’t let go of it without blood.”

It’s hard to make sense of this. Is there really a hidden world where wolves fight to the death over the woods outside of a sleepy suburb? “Can you win?” Lydia asks uncertainly.

Peter frowns at this. He doesn’t answer for some time, instead staring out of the window. “It’s too unevenly matched for my taste,” he replies at last, evasive. “We don’t know them, or their fighting style. And Derek’s new packis filled with untrained betas who’ve barely had time to learn how to keep their fangs in their mouths. Derek and Cora and I are strong. But I don’t know that we’re enough.”

A thought occurs to Stiles, and he briefly wonders if it’s a stupid thing to say before he charges forward with it anyway. “If you’re werewolves, and you can make _more_ werewolves just by biting someone...is that what you’ll do?” Peter looks at him appraisingly, which is exactly what Stiles didn’t want. He thinks maybe Peter was aiming for this question, guiding them toward asking it. “We’re not offering,” he clarifies after a beat. “I like my skin non-furry, thanks.”

A wolfish grin meets this statement. “Of course you do. It’s very nice skin,” Peter replies, and he sobers before Stiles can worry about whether it’s some kind of wolf tradition to skin people alive or something. “The answer is no: I don’t want to turn anyone. Turning a new beta is permanent. I’d essentially be stuck with them forever, unless I could shoulder them off on another alpha. And though a pack would be helpful, I don’t need a whining bunch of wolves trailing behind me wherever I go for the rest of my life.”

Lydia, like Stiles, catches the careful wording. “What about a pack of _humans_?” she asks suspiciously. 

“Or ‘human-adjacents,’” Stiles adds, his tone sour.

Peter inclines his head once more, and this time, his expression grows a little more amiable. “Non-werewolf pack members are ideal,” he admits. “Think of it like at-will employment: you’re free to come and go as you like. The arrangement is temporary, lasting as long as both sides agree to it. I gain the same boost in strength that I would from having werewolf betas, but only as long as you stay in the pack. And of course, it’s nice to have betas with magical powers to help in more delicate situations.”

“You want us to be your...betas,” Lydia clarifies, resting her chin on her fist. 

“That’s not the entire reason I’m here,” Peter says. “I’ll admit I’m curious about what you are, and what it could mean for the territory. But yes, if you would consider joining me, it would be a great advantage. I think we might help each other. And as I said, you wouldn’t even have to do anything in particular—though your extra support would be appreciated. Simply by _being_ my betas, I’d be more powerful than I would be if I were alone.”

 _Is he serious?_ Stiles wonders. Neither he nor Lydia came into this prepared for something like this. He wonders if she feels as flabbergasted as he does. She’s certainly better at concealing that kind of thing. “And...why should we do it?” Stiles asks finally, staring at Peter. “What’s in it for us?”

“Information,” Peter replies at once. Obviously, he knows them well already. “You’d have access to whatever texts I can get my hands on about your powers, in addition to all of the books in my not-insignificant library. As well as potential training for you, Stiles, through the druid who used to be the emissary of the Hale pack. Provided that I can get him to agree to a student. You’d also have my protection from the incoming pack. On the off chance that they _do_ try to force you to join, or try something worse.”

Stiles and Lydia exchange a long look. Lydia’s brow is furrowed, and there’s a determination in the set of her jaw that Stiles is familiar with. She’s intrigued by the offer, just as he is—enough to give it more thought, anyway. At the very least, they aren’t going to say no right off the bat.

“You’re truly finished with the whole... _killing_ thing, then?” Lydia demands, turning back to face the werewolf. 

Stiles flails, exasperated. “How can you even _ask—_ ”

“And yes, I realize how pointless it is to even ask this kind of question to someone who could lie to my face,” she adds loudly. When she and Stiles finish glaring, Peter’s look of amusement has dialed up to a hundred. Lydia continues, “I mean, you realize it’s already really hard to trust you given what you’ve already done. So. You’re really, as far as you can honestly say, back in your right mind. And you’re done killing anyone connected to the fire.”

“You have my word,” Peter replies, a glowing smile crossing his face. “The only people I’m considering hurting are the ones circling the territory at the moment.”

“We’re obviously going to have to consider this,” Stiles points out.

“I’m sure I’d think less of you if you accepted right away.”

“We might not accept _at all_.”

“I do understand what the word ‘consider’ means.” Peter stares back at him almost serenely, still leaning upon his elbows. Stiles glares back, still wondering if there’s more to this than what the werewolf has said.

“Alright. I think that’s enough for now.” Lydia touches Stiles’s shoulder. “We should go.”

Stiles obediently slides out of the booth. “How should we, uh, get in touch with you?” he wonders as he stands. The two of them are alert, staring down at Peter as though he might make a sudden move—though it makes no sense for him to do so. 

“I’ll get in touch with _you_ ,” Peter replies, his smile sly. As if sensing their distrust, he stays perfectly still, just as he did when they walked back to the car yesterday. “It’s easier that way.”

Stiles opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. He doesn’t like the idea of Peter showing up whenever he pleases, but they’re hardly in a position to prevent him from doing so.

“Fine. We’ll see you, then,” Lydia replies, and the two of them walk out of the diner, aware of his presence behind them as they go. Crossing the threshold into the sunlight feels like crossing into safety, and they clamber into Lydia’s car and leave. Peter is looking back at them from the window, head resting on his palm, as they pull away.

“He’s definitely a serial killer,” Stiles says after a few moments of silence. They’re stopped at another redlight, and he’s taken his and Lydia’s phones to delete the scheduled messages from both devices.

“Literally, he is.”

“You know what I mean. There’s something wrong with him. He makes me _want_ to like him. He’s like Ted Bundy. The whole, like, easy charisma thing.”

Lydia sighs. “Maybe the universe is turning in our favor and he’s just an otherwise normal, perfectly likeable human being. Well, werewolf.”

“No, that definitely can’t be it. I think he’s a psychopath. Like Mr. Carson, do you remember?”

“Mr. Cars—wait, why’s he a psychopath? He used to let us play Oregon Trail on the computer when we finished before everyone else.”

“He wrote his printed M’s with three humps. _Three._ What the fuck? The first time, I thought it was a mistake, and then he kept doing it all year. Like a fucking monster.”

Lydia snorts in a distinctly unladylike fashion, and then she gives him the side-eye, probably because she knows that when he darts off on random tangents like this, it’s usually because he’s freaked out. “Stiles. What are _you_ thinking?”

“I’m thinking it’s a lot,” he says at once. “I mean normally, supernatural stuff aside, we’d _never_ get roped into something like this. Like, meeting a definite serial killer for coffee? Even _considering_ meeting him again to get more information? That’s the stuff of horror movies. The stuff people literally die for in horror movies.”

“But this _isn’t_ ‘supernatural stuff aside.’ We have to do something about whatever we are. Especially you. Stiles, if he’s right about you...”

“I know. Yeah. And I guess the thing that sucks is that my gut is saying we should take him up on the offer. It seems...if he’s being honest about it, it seems good. We need info, and he’s not really asking much of us, or at least it doesn’t sound like he is. Plus he’d be protecting us from the other pack, for whatever that’s worth.”

“Yeah, the other pack that we’ve never seen or heard of, so we have to take his word for it. And for everything else about magic we’d have to blindly trust him on. And besides, he _would_ make the offer sound good. He’d make it sound like exactly what we need. And he could be telling the truth, or…”

“ _Or_ ,” Stiles agrees. “Exactly.”

They’re quiet for a while. The hum of traffic around them is soothing, and Stiles finds he doesn’t really want to head back to either of their empty homes. Lydia must be thinking the same thing, because she takes a left to loop around the area again instead of getting on the main road. Stiles watches the utility poles flick past his window, the wires dipping low into their curves and then pulling up to the top of the posts, dipping and pulling again.

She pulls into a parking spot at the gas station on Third and they get out wordlessly to spill inside. If there’s one remedy for churning, over-caffeinated stomachs, it’s probably not a heavy dose of sugar. But lemon berry slushies, a childhood favorite that neither of them has managed to grow out of, are a different kind of familiar balm in this situation. They lean against the side of the Prius as they slurp them down, watching customers come and go from the pawn shop across the street.

“So then what do we do now?” Lydia asks quietly.

Stiles still doesn’t know. His thoughts are dashing in circles. “Let’s sleep on it,” he replies, thinking of his dad, and how he would literally murder Stiles for what he’s considering. “There’s enough time to make stupid decisions that could get us killed tomorrow.”

“We don’t make stupid decisions,” Lydia retorts, and there’s the haughty tone he knows and loves. She pops open the cap to flick her unwanted chunks of ice into the grass at their feet. “And I’m telling you right now, one way or another, Peter Hale isn’t going to be the death of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In elementary school, I imagine Stiles was the kid asking tons of questions like "so if a duck had lips could it whistle" and everyone was weirded out and/or made fun. Lydia was the only one who took him seriously, and that’s how they started researching together.
> 
> \- That cursive M thing is based on a true story. Names have been changed to protect all parties, but you know who you are, "Mr. Carson."
> 
> \- Anyway, here we are, one month later! For some reason, I thought posting before the election would give me time to write so I could “distract myself from refreshing my screen” lol. Obviously that didn’t happen, and then this chapter grew way longer than I’d planned in my outline. Definitely hoping to get upcoming chapters out much faster than this. 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	3. Bonus Points for Creepery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles studies him for a long moment. It’s pretty stupid to say this, but Scott seems normal so far—more normal than he’d have imagined a testosterone-driven werewolf should be, given Peter’s descriptions. And he and Scott _were_ friends. Once upon a time. “Did Peter tell you about us?” he asks abruptly. “What we are?”
> 
> Lydia grinds her teeth a little, almost imperceptibly, beside him.

“That’s not _The Crucible,_ ” a voice says from behind them, dubious and low.

Stiles and Lydia wage a still and silent war to decide whose turn it is to deal with the interloper. For a few beats, neither of them looks away from the ancient screens of their school computers. It’s going to be Stiles who caves, though, and at the sound of rustling paper—probably uncomfortable shifting on the part of whoever’s behind them—he finally heaves a sigh, catching the triumphant quirk of Lydia’s mouth as he turns around.

Behind them stands Scott McCall, his lean face twisted into a confused frown that somehow makes him look more like a puppy than ever. “Dude, what’s up?” Stiles asks pointedly.

“Oh, the—yeah,” Scott says. He works a pair of papers out from the stack he’s carrying and holds them out for Stiles to take. “Uh, Mrs. Hayes asked me to pass these out, for the analysis project.”

“We’re finished with those,” Lydia interrupts, without even turning to look. Scott lowers his arm when it becomes clear Stiles isn’t reaching for the papers. “She posted them on the class website three days ago.”

“You—uh, you did them in advance? She just gave us the project this morning.” 

He seems genuinely disturbed by the idea. Stiles shrugs, taking pity on him. “Why not? I mean, it’s only a couple weeks into school, so what else were we doing? And now we have free time, instead of…” he gestures vaguely to the rest of the classroom. The computer lab is a chaos of lost and found mousepads and the chime of rebooting monitors. Groups huddle in corners and pretend they aren’t on Snapchat when Mrs. Hayes passes by, or that they aren’t spreading the latest gossip on the women found in the preserve. 

Scott glances around, perplexed. Way back when, he and Stiles used to have the occasional playdate—used to be friends, even. But that was before his mom got sick. Before Stiles drifted apart from pretty much everyone in his life but Lydia. And now…

_Now he’s a werewolf,_ Stiles remembers, glancing up and down at him. The asthma’s probably gone, he realizes, since lycanthropy’s supposed to cure pretty much everything, from what little they’ve learned of it. And Scott _moves_ differently nowadays, like he’s agile or more aware or something, like he might actually catch himself if he tripped over his own lanky legs.

Scott is staring right back at him, a surprisingly shrewd look on his face. “So. Not _The Crucible,_ then?”

“Nope,” Stiles agrees gamely. “I mean, witchcraft-adjacent, maybe.”

When Scott realizes nothing else is forthcoming, and that he’s going to have to ask Stiles a question directly, he clears his throat. “You guys really _do_ just...do whatever you want in class.”

“The rumors have not been exaggerated,” Stiles confirms. Somewhere behind Scott, a frowning Mrs. Hayes is shooting subtle glances in their direction. She’s not irritated enough to come over just yet, but she might be soon. Stiles carefully doesn’t engage. “If you get mostly perfect scores, there’s not much they can do. Most of the teachers know it’s easier to just let us do other shit in class so we don’t make life hard for them.”

“What, like…” Scott lowers his voice. “Like, mess with their stuff or something?”

Stiles snorts. “No, dude. Just asking a shit ton of questions we already know the answers to. Being _too_ involved. Stuff like that. They end up having to like, micromanage us instead of actually running the class.” He squints up at Scott, half-amused. “What kind of people do you think we are?”

Scott shakes his head, embarrassed. “I dunno. There are rumors.” He toys with the edges of the papers. “Someone told me once that it was you guys who framed that dickwad, what’s-his-name, for selling pot last year? He always said he never saw it before it ended up in his locker.”

“Trust me, I hear from my dad that _everyone_ says that kind of thing to get out of a crime,” Stiles replies with an impassive shrug.

“I guess.” Scott looks unsettled. He jerks his chin toward their computers. “Um, so what are you guys looking up, then?”

Stiles turns to face the screen. “Uhh...fairy tales? Or monsters, I guess? This guy’s some kind of weird mishmash of stuff, I think.”

Scott bends down to peer at the photos on Stiles’s screen. “Huh. Looks like those zombie clicker things from _The Last of Us._ ”

“Dude! Great game. Actually—yeah, I can see that now.”

“Yeah, I didn’t sleep for days after playing it.”

“Same. My dad thought I was starting to listen to his safety lectures about locking up the house at night. But really I was just picturing clickers whenever I closed my eyes.”

They grin at each other for a second, before Stiles remembers who they are. He clears his throat. “I think it’s some kind of demon, actually. Just went down a wormhole. I can’t focus for shit right now.”

“Man, same. Plus this dumb play is creepy as anything.”

Stiles studies him for a long moment. It’s pretty stupid to say this, but Scott seems normal so far—more normal than he’d have imagined a testosterone-driven werewolf should actually be, given Peter’s descriptions. And he and Scott _were_ friends. Once upon a time. “Did Peter tell you about us?” he asks abruptly. “What we are?”

Lydia grinds her teeth a little, almost imperceptibly, beside him. 

Scott doesn’t seem to notice. He blinks at Stiles and then, suddenly, relaxes. As though he’d been waiting the whole time to drop the pretense. “Peter? _Hale?_ No way, man.” He glances around briefly, still aware that people might be listening in. “We don’t really run with him. He’s kind of a weirdo, even if he’s Derek’s uncle. Why, did he talk to you guys about something?”

“Yeah, just, like…apparently we smell?”

Scott nods sagely. “No offense man, but yeah. Not _bad,_ but kinda weird. We’ve been trying to figure out what’s different about you guys for ages, but Derek didn’t know if _you_ knew. Now that you’re talking with Peter, though…”

“Wait, and you didn’t say anything?”

“Like what?” Scott scoffs. “‘Hey, guys, we have superhuman smelling, and we think you smell funny, so you might be something not huma—I mean, something weird?’” He looks around. “Anyway, Derek figures you’re not harmful, probably, if you haven’t done anything this long. But uh, it’s worth knowing either way.”

“Huh. Well—”

“You’ll know when _we_ know. Because right now, it’s a work in progress,” Lydia interjects, swiveling in her seat to face Scott for the first time. Stiles and Scott both stare. “We’ll be in touch. Aren’t you supposed to be handing out papers or something?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah.” Awkwardly, Scott gathers his remaining papers into a neat pile, but he hesitates before he can turn away. “Uh, you guys should maybe talk to him. Derek, that is. About, you know, what you are, and maybe even hang out with the pack? Just so you can—”

“We’ll be in touch,” Lydia repeats.

“Oh-kaaay,” Scott says slowly, and he backs away from them, turning to hand a paper to the next group.

“Oof,” Stiles says after a minute. 

“This is ridiculous.”

Stiles shrugs, glancing around to make sure Mrs. Hayes isn’t looming nearby. “Didn’t really seem like he was planning anything sinister. I think they’re just checking us off their list of weird local oddities.”

“The _search engines_ , Stiles.” Lydia corrects him. She exhales through her teeth, which almost makes her look like she’s growling. “I hate not finding anything worth reading. We might as well be trying to use coloring books for research. This is why we _pay_ for online databases. Come to think of it….do you think there are databases for supernatural stuff? We don’t even have anything on—on what _you_ are yet,” she finishes, mindful of her words in case the werewolf crowd is eavesdropping. 

The straight-faced blonde kid, Isaac, is currently trying to trip Scott as he passes, and the ensuing scuffle between them is appropriately quiet enough not to catch Mrs. Hayes’ attention over the clamor of groupwork. Stiles guesses it’s safe to say the other pack doesn’t care _that_ much about their newly supernatural peers.

“Kind of a vague search term,” Stiles agrees, swiveling back to face her. 

She glares at him. “How are you so _calm_ about this? 

“Uh, I’m super _not_ calm about this,” Stiles hisses back, lowering his voice. “But me having a panic attack in the middle of lit class isn’t going to help. And since it looks like we _are_ stepping into like...Buffy the Vampire Slayer territory or something—you know, where there’s all this superpower-y stuff going on but they still have to ace their physics test—it’s probably a good idea to get on with the weird local wildlife.”

“Alright,” she agrees, mollified. Then: “Does that mean Peter, too?”

He hesitates for a moment, frowning as she looks through the notes in her notebook. It’s full of everything that _might_ be true of banshees: death predictions, communication with spirits, deafening screams. 

In that moment, Mrs. Hayes casually slips by them, eyes darting to their screens. Neither of them bother to change their tabs, not when half the class probably has the Sparknotes pulled up and the two of them have already turned in the assignment. Mrs. Hayes pauses, opening her mouth, and Lydia turns to give her a cool smile. Their teacher wavers, and then her attention is snagged by a raised hand.

“I think we should _think_ about joining him,” Stiles responds finally, as they watch Mrs. Hayes reluctantly walk off to deal with Greenberg’s no doubt inane questions. Lydia turns to him. “Or just...allying with him, at least? It’s just that if what he said is right, and there’s another werewolf pack in the area, one that’s maybe trying to mess stuff up, or get all murder-y...well, they don’t really sound like ideal neighbors. We might _have_ to make a choice at some point. And if he can keep us up to date on whatever happens, or even maybe help us stay out of their way, it’s way more than what we could do on our own.”

“Why not ally with the other Hales?” Lydia asks, though he can see the distaste in her expression at the idea.

“Just in case they’re like Peter said—total newbies who have no idea what’s up. Plus the fact that Scott seems to know way less about us than Peter did. Besides, I didn’t hear Scott offering up a library and magical education. Which means we’d probably still be right where we are now: on our own, looking for needles in haystacks.” He frowns, watching Scott and the blonde kid, Isaac, shift their scuffle to wrestle over a pen. “And also, then we’d probably have to...you know. Hang out with them.”

“Right,” Lydia sighs. “And this isn’t just because you want to like Peter for his serial killer charm.”

“Not in a way that goes beyond appreciating his god-tier muscle definition,” Stiles snarks back. 

“Just to play devil’s advocate, we could wait and see what those other werewolves do. What’s to say they actually care about us at all?” She rubs her forehead and answers her own question. “But that would leave us unprepared if they _are_ as bad as Peter says they are.”

“Yeah. Plus, I just...I think we should throw in our lot with the weird supernatural creatures who aren’t _currently_ homicidal. The devil you know, and all that.”

“We _don’t_ know him, though. And we can’t trust him.”

“Definitely not,” Stiles sighs.

Slowly, Lydia nods. “I’ve been thinking. About what Peter said, about you possibly being a spark. He told us that you can learn to do _anything,_ that you’re a blank page. At least when someone isn’t pulling the strings. We don’t know what’s going on with your sleepwalking, and I just think...we shouldn’t trust _anyone_. Not until we know what’s really going on.”

Stiles stares. “You’re worried that it could be Peter who’s doing this to me.”

“I don’t. I only think we have no idea what’s going on yet,” Lydia corrects. “Apparently, everyone else is trying to prepare for this—this _confrontation,_ trying to make allies, and we don’t even know the rules yet. I think we need to be careful.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Stiles says tiredly. The bell rings, and the loud drone of voices rises as everyone begins cramming things into their bags. “Anyway, it’s not like we need to make a move instantly. We can wait and see what happens in the next few days. Keep looking for more info.”

He doesn’t have to tell Lydia that they seem to have hit a brick wall in terms of finding reliable info, or that they’d probably have better luck sifting through a library belonging to a real-life supernatural creature. By the frustrated way she dumps her notes into her purse, she already knows.

The lunch crowd is shrill and joyful as always, the halls brimming with students, and as they wade through the turmoil, it takes Stiles a moment to realize that they’ve been flanked by some familiar faces. Jackson and Boyd are at the forefront, surrounded by Erica and Isaac. Scott is behind, looking slightly apologetic.

“Thought we’d walk you to lunch,” Jackson says coolly.

“Thought you’d grown out of the ‘douchebag chic’ look,” Lydia replies, “but we can’t always be right about everything.” 

There’s an odd _look_ that passes between the two of them. All at once, Jackson’s decision to suddenly break things off with Lydia all those months back makes way more sense. Or at least a tiny bit more sense. Jackson’s _stupid_ vain, after all, and probably didn’t want Lydia to know he sprouts fur once a month, Stiles imagines. He probably can hardly live with his own hideousness.

That _look_ is maybe an _I can’t believe you didn’t tell me_ look, or a _Seriously, what did you expect_ look. Beyond that, Stiles doesn’t know—and he’s too grossed out to think more seriously about it. Their relationship always did make him want to gag. 

“Maybe we can walk you somewhere else, then,” Jackson retorts, brow still furrowed. “We need to talk.”

Lydia inclines her head. “So we do. Five minutes. But not in the cafeteria.”

The track team is running drills out on the lacrosse field when they arrive, and there are maybe two dozen students scattered in small groups across the bleachers, either snacking or straight-up ditching class. 

Greenberg, bent over lunch with his friends on the upper seats, spots them and jumps up to head over. “Hey, Stilinski,” he shouts, “I’ve got a paper—”

“Get lost, Greenberg,” Lydia and Stiles bark in unison without looking up, and Greenberg ducks his head and swivels in place to walk away. 

“Ew,” Erica says, covering her mouth and nose as they gather near the benches on the edge of the field. “You really _do_ smell like Peter.” 

“You shouldn’t trust him,” Scott adds earnestly. “He’s... _Peter._ ”

“Oh, right,” Stiles retorts. “We should trust _you guys,_ because you said so _._ News flash: Peter said the same thing about himself.”

“Scott’s right,” Isaac argues. “Peter’s a lone alpha.”

“Pretend for a second that I have no idea what that means.”

Jackson rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful. “Jesus, Stilinski,” he mutters. “Look, werewolves come in packs _._ We’re _wolves._ That’s how we’re made to live; we need a group to survive. But there’s a hierarchy in packs—God, how do I put this so your brain can understand?”

Erica and Isaac roll their eyes, but Jackson continues before anyone can interject. “It’s like a point system. If you don’t have a pack, you get zero points and you’re called an omega, and in terms of the werewolf hierarchy it’s literally the lowest of the low. The nobodies.”

“When you’re an omega, it means you’ve been kicked out of a pack,” Scott interjects, pointedly ignoring Jackson’s scowl, “and no one else’s willing to trust you enough to let you in.”

“If you’re a lone alpha, it’s like a couple points above that,” Jackson says. “Barely.”

“And lone alphas, rogue alphas...they’re usually feral within months. We _need_ pack.”

Stiles takes all this in. “He doesn’t get bonus points for know-it-all creepery?”

“I think they take points _off_ for that, dumbass.”

“So what are you all, then?” Lydia asks flippantly. “Derek’s groupies? A happy little cult?”

“We’re betas _,_ ” Isaac explains quickly before a glowering Jackson can jump back in. 

“All of us work together with Derek,” Erica adds, shrugging. “We’re stronger together. It sounds like a stupid thing to say, but that’s how it actually works.”

“You should come talk to him,” Boyd says suddenly. Stiles jumps, having forgotten he was there at all. “If you guys _are_ something superhuman, he might be able to help you figure out what that means.”

“No thanks,” Stiles replies. “If he wants, he can come chat with _us._ Because the funny thing is, walking into the preserve to join a cult doesn’t really sound like my idea of a fun afternoon. I’ve had way too many werewolves in my life recently. And we’ve already been offered a peek at the Hale library.”

“Wait, but—don’t trust Peter,” Scott cautions again, shaking his head.

“We don’t trust _anyone_ ,” Lydia replies primly, raising her eyebrows as if to say _present company included._

“But there’s a rogue pack of werewolves coming—” Jackson begins.

“We’ve heard, thanks,” Lydia cuts him off. “And we’ll figure that out on our own, if it comes down to it. But we’re not walking into a setup with _six werewolves._ Like Stiles said, one’s bad enough.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“We definitely aren’t.” Lydia replies.

“Good talk,” Stiles says, flipping them a peace sign over his shoulder as they turn and walk away.

.

Stiles gradually becomes aware of a strange pressure on his skin, on his chest, as though he’s underwater. There’s a deep silence stuffed into his ears, numbing his brain. He can sense rather than see that his arm is outstretched, palm pressed against a solid wall that thrums under his touch, pushing energy into his veins.

Dragging himself out of that dark place takes half an age: it’s safe and warm there, and part of him doesn’t really want to surface.

But he does at last, and the world grows green and vibrant, sage trees bundling him in their sprawling foliage. Everything is alive, imbuing him with life, too. His heart drums a crescendo, the beat steadying into a light hum.

Only it’s not his heart, he realizes suddenly. It’s something else.

“For some reason, I thought you’d only get _less_ interesting as I learned more about you.”

With the first syllable that snaps into the cool air, Stiles slips from the trance. There’s an abrupt shock of cricket song nearby, and the rustle of leaves on the wind, like someone just un-muted a television. He turns, disconcerted, to find Peter standing just a few paces behind him.

“What—how did...I walked right out of Lydia’s bed,” Stiles realizes sluggishly, his voice thin even to his own ears, like he’s adjusting to the sound. He turns back to the wall to find that it _isn’t_ a wall. 

It’s a tree. But somehow, that word seems to fall short of the hulking mass of bark, warm under his palm and probably wider in circumference than his entire living room at home. 

“You weren’t responding,” Peter tells him, taking Stiles’s thoughtful silence as a sign to move closer. It’s strange, though: Peter moves with care, like he’s on high alert. The wolf ventures nearer but stops out of arm’s reach of the tree. When Stiles opens his mouth to speak, Peter adds warily, “Can you back away?”

It’s a stupid question. Or it should be. Except now that Stiles is considering it, he’s having a hard time getting his body to cooperate. With great effort, he pulls his hand from the rough bark of the tree, gingerly taking a few steps back as he notes the loss of warmth. Of magic, maybe.

“That’s a good sign,” Peter says thoughtfully. He seems more subdued than he was at the cafe, maybe even more tense.

Stiles remembers what he was going to say and frowns as he turns to face the werewolf. “You were _stalking me_ through the woods again.”

Peter snorts, incredulous. “That’s hardly what I would call it.”

“Then, what?” Stiles asks, throwing his hands into the air. “You just happened to be out on, like, secret werewolf business in the middle of the night, and there I was?”

“As it so happens, yes.”

Stiles frowns at him. “Really? What, running through the woods to howl at the moon or something?”

Peter sighs impatiently. “No, Stiles. I was safeguarding you.”

“Safeguarding,” Stiles retorts flatly. “So you just wanted the official record to show ‘stalking’ but with a nicer word.”

“I thought you might be walking _to_ someone. And I was right. Well, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“It wasn’t some _one,_ but some _thing._ Do you know where you are?”

Stiles glances around, but he doesn’t recognize the area—maybe because he’s never made it this far in without waking up. The plants are more overgrown here than in the rest of the woods, with bright patches of wildflowers hemming in one part of the small clearing. There’s a reedy pond spilling over part of the root system. It’s greener, too, like they’ve found an oasis of springtime in the autumn forest. But the tree is by far the most eye-catching thing about the place, with its gnarled roots and twisted whorls of branches high overhead.

“It’s a nemeton,” Peter tells him lowly, and Stiles can’t tell if he means not to be overheard or if he’s trying for a respectful volume. “A tree born in a sacred space. Its health affects the wellbeing of the land around it, and the magical beings within that land.”

Stiles absorbs this for a long moment. “So...what you’re really saying,” he manages, studying the bark and branches higher up, “is that I’m getting telepathic phone calls from a tree. Which is alive. Like, alive and sentient I mean.”

“The ‘alive’ part’s new,” Peter says, shrugging his shoulders as he squints into the bushes at his side. “I haven’t been by in ages, but for as long as I can remember it was just a dead stump.”

Stiles nods, a sudden rush of cool relief spilling over him at the thought that whatever’s been drawing him out in the dark of night isn’t actually an enemy wolf, or some magic user, or Peter himself. But that’s for all of three seconds. “What’s that _mean?_ What do I do about it? Why is it dragging me out here all the time?”

“I really couldn’t say,” Peter remarks, and this time, his tone is almost rueful—probably because he himself wants to resolve the mystery as well.

They stand in silence for a long moment, Stiles staring hopelessly up into the branches of the tree, willing it to give him a sign. Then a yawn cracks his jaw wide open. Peter huffs out something that’s either a laugh or a sigh.

“Come on,” the werewolf says. Stiles follows automatically, and decides a second later that it’s a sign that the nemeton is conspiring to steal his last brain cells. Or more likely, he’s just exhausted. He can’t remember the last time he had a full night’s sleep—if he’s not sleepwalking, it’s weird dreams—so he can’t really be expected to make informed decisions about entrusting his safety to strange werewolves in the night. 

He _does_ have his sneakers on this time (thanks, past sleepwalking self), but when he slips his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, he comes up empty. “Ugh. I forgot to put my phone in my pocket. Or it fell out while I was tripping all over the place, but let’s not entertain that option because that would really suck.” He eyes Peter. “You wouldn’t happen to—”

“I’ll walk you home.”

“You’ll—can’t we just drive? Unless...do werewolves not do that?”

“Not this one.”

“Sooo is it the eco-friendliness thing, or…?”

“I live near the preserve and spend most of my time in it. There’s no reason to have one.”

“Right on, I guess,” Stiles says, heart sinking. A long walk in the dark with a werewolf for company is not how he wanted to spend the night. And Lydia’s definitely going to chew him out over the phone thing. _And_ there’s school in the morning, so he’ll be lucky to get three or four hours of sleep. Depending on the time. _Aren’t you supposed to be able to tell time by the moon?_ Stiles wonders, trying to catch sight of it through the branches overhead.

“It’s going to be a problem eventually, though,” Peter adds out of nowhere as they begin to pick their way through the undergrowth. The tension seems to seep out of his sturdy shoulders the further they get from the tree. “The fact that it’s the nemeton behind this.”

“Why’s that?” Stiles asks, rubbing his eyes as he struggles to keep up with Peter’s logic.

“If that tree’s got you wrapped around its little finger, I don’t know if you’ll be able to leave Beacon Hills.”

Stiles frowns, puzzled. “Why would I want to leave? I live here.”

“Yes, but the ability to leave might be useful if you, I don’t know, wanted to flee an incoming pack of particularly aggressive werewolves.”

Stiles works his mouth open and closed again. “Wow, awesome.”

Peter is quiet. Stiles decides to divert his attention to the clinging thistles he’s struggling through instead of silently freaking himself out. There’s no point in worrying about a future he doesn’t know will come to pass, he reasons. Or at least, if he _is_ going to freak out, he’d rather do it alone instead of in the dark woods with Peter Hale. 

“Better to do it yourself, and quick, if it comes to it,” Peter says out of nowhere.

When Stiles catches his meaning, a disbelieving laugh escapes before he can help it. “Wow. _Zero_ compassion. Not even an attempt.”

“You’re not in my pack,” Peter retorts. For some reason, it’s grown darker and darker the further they’ve gotten from that tree. Stiles can’t really make out the werewolf’s face anymore, and he’s probably spent a grand total of two hours with him in his entire life, but he still knows there’s a stupidly smug smirk across it.

“Yeah, well this isn’t a great way to prove…” he pauses, ducking under a low branch. He slips a little on the damp grass on his way past but manages to keep on his feet. “Well, I guess you did ‘safeguard’ me,” he adds sarcastically.

“And I’ve gotten very little thanks for it.”

“Because I don’t believe for a second that you did it out of the goodness of your heart. You’re only here because you want to know what’s coming down the pipeline, and what it means for _you._ So forgive me if I’m not falling over myself to sing your praises.”

“But you _are_ falling over yourself,” Peter observes as Stiles trips again.

Stiles swears under his breath. “Hey, by the way,” he realizes suddenly, “we got like...straight-up _accosted_ at school by Derek’s groupies. And they had a lot to say about you.”

“Hm. Such as?”

“Basically that you’re a feral weirdo. And not to be trusted.”

“Sounds about right.”

“And that you’re an omega, or...no. The other thing. A lone alpha, like you said. Which is super weird, apparently, to do your own thing alone like that. Who knew there’s not much truth to the saying ‘lone wolf?’”

“Hm.” Peter’s quiet for such a long time that Stiles starts feeling bad, like he took things too far. But it’s not like he expected the wolf to get _offended_ by the questions, not really. Anyway, if he is, he doesn’t show it. “It _is_ unusual,” he agrees at last. 

“And dangerous?” Stiles wonders. “The other betas said—well, you know. That lone alphas can go feral. Whatever that means.”

“Let’s just say it’s not pretty. And for the weaker-minded, yes, it would be a constant struggle.”

“Oh, but let me guess,” Stiles says, exasperated, “it’s no problem at all for the incredible Peter Hale, who has everything 100% under control at all times and has never qualified as ‘basic’ a day in his life.” 

He hears Peter’s surprised chuckle in the dark. “I’m flattered,” he says, before Stiles can make a fool of himself by adding anything else. There’s a smile in his voice. “But I wouldn’t go that far. I would rate myself somewhere in the 98% range.”

“Unbelievable,” Stiles mutters. But it’s not like Peter would admit imperfection to him of all people. Stiles doesn’t know what he was expecting.

“Even so,” Peter adds suddenly, just as Stiles thinks they’re going to let the topic drop to continue on in silence, “it’s very rare for an alpha to remain alone.”

There’s something a little wistful in his tone, something Stiles doesn’t know how to respond to. Peter turns away, seeming keen to let the moment pass, and Stiles is only too happy to oblige.

They cross into more familiar territory—places near the edge of the woods where he’s woken from bouts of sleepwalking in the past. They make their way through an open meadow that, compared to the dark trees behind them, is bright with moon and starlight and peppered here and there with wildflowers. 

Stiles idly hops onto and off of a tree stump as they pass, thinking. After a minute, he ventures to ask a question he and Lydia desperately need answered if they’re going to make any sense of all this. “What does it mean, really, to be in a pack?”

The silence between them grows a little more thoughtful. “It means you’re never alone,” Peter explains. “In the right pack, you know you have each other’s backs without having to ask. It’s not an alliance, it’s something...more. You know where you stand with each other without discussing it. Packs are safety nets. Families. That’s how most of us choose to live.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“What did you think it would be?”

Stiles makes a face. “Dude, I have no idea, but if you were gonna tell me it would look like the cult slash frat party Derek’s pack is turning into, it was gonna be a hard pass.”

“I could have told you that.”

“It’s just, _weird_ vibes. Like they don’t actually get along or know each other, really, but they’re sticking together because someone told them to.”

“Well, to be fair, they’re new enough that they really mightnot know each other. Either way, they’re hardly a shining example of an established pack. They haven’t had time to build up trust. Their pack bonds won’t be as strong as they could be, and the pack in turn won’t be as strong as it can be.”

“That seems like kind of a big deal,” Stiles says, eyeing him. “If you have to build trust with someone to be a successful pack, for the pack bonds or whatever, and you need time to make that work...how are you supposed to do that in advance of whatever fight you’re having with the rando enemy pack?”

“That’s the dilemma,” Peter replies.

After debating for a moment, Stiles throws caution to the wind and asks the question he’s circling round to. “I know you said you want pack members who can come and go, but if things are potentially serious with that other pack, are you _completely_ sure it isn’t better to just bite more pack members? Even if it isn’t your first choice? But like, not high school teenagers,” he adds quickly. “People you actually know or something.”

“I don’t want to give the bite to new pack members. It wouldn’t be worth keeping unwanted ones around once all this is said and done.”

Stiles snorts. “Even if it’s literally life or death? Why didn’t I guess you’d be looking at this with super high standards?”

“Is it high standards to want packmates I know I can trust _before_ they take the bite?” Peter snaps. “Packmates who _choose_ to be part of the pack? Packmates I’d want around even after the threat is gone?”

Stiles has no comeback for any of this, and for the first time since this all began, he tries to put himself in Peter’s shoes. What would _he_ do? If it came down to it, as a matter of life or death, would he want to make packmates of total strangers, only to be linked to them for the rest of his life? It’s a hard thing to imagine, at first, because Stiles _isn’t_ alone. He’d have Lydia, and it’s always been the two of them against the world. 

Without her? It’s a totally different story. Should he choose strength and place his fate in the hands of strangers, or should he go it alone and hope to choose better packmates one day if he survives?

“No, it’s not,” he replies slowly. “It’s kind of a catch-22, isn’t it?”

Peter only hums in response, and Stiles takes the hint and drops the line of questioning.

They continue on in silence for a long while. Gradually, the trees begin to thin, making way for short, scraggly undergrowth, and then for the road that leads into town, past places Lydia’s picked him up in the past. When they reach the first streets of the outer suburban sprawl, Stiles takes the lead without comment. In a normal situation, it would probably be a terrible idea to let someone like Peter Hale know where he and Lydia live, but he figures Peter could track them there if he really wanted to know. 

And if he’s being honest, it’s way more comfortable walking around in the dark of night when he has company, even if that company is a supernatural creature he didn’t know existed until a few days ago.

Thankfully, Lydia’s neighborhood lies in one of the wealthier areas toward the outskirts of town. By the time they reach Lydia’s street, Stiles’s feet are aching and the eastern sky is beginning to glow faintly purple with the sunrise. At last, he comes to a stop in front of the Martin home, gesturing toward the long driveway of the red-bricked, ivy-covered structure.

“This is me. Well, part-time.”

Peter cocks his head in interest, trailing up the driveway behind Stiles. _You have_ no _sense of self-preservation,_ Stiles’s mind chastises, but he’s too tired to worry at the moment. 

“How are you getting back inside?”

“Oh. I’m assuming I just unlocked the front door on the way out. I think that’s what mostly happens, but Lydia’s usually been the one picking me up before. If it’s locked, I’ll just ring the bell. Her parents aren’t home anyway.”

“Sounds awfully convenient. Just the two of you.”

Stiles realizes what the werewolf is insinuating a beat too late, catching the sly tone and the tail end of his leer. “What? Fucking _ew_.” They’re stepping across the path to the front door now, and he glances up as if Lydia could have somehow heard him and grown offended. “I mean, not that Lyd isn’t, like, you know. But just—no way, dude. We’re not like that.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You and Lydia aren’t together?”

“Again, _ew_. I mean, I was super into her when I was in like, kindergarten, for sure. But now I know her too well. She’s basically my sister. It’s hard to keep the romance alive with someone who has way too much blackmail material from my childhood.” He pauses. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

Peter shrugs. “You smell alike,” he explains matter-of-factly. “Not like sex, but alike enough.”

Stiles flushes and wrinkles his nose. “Fucking werewolves,” he grumbles. “Gross that you’re smelling me, but I’m willing to table it for now to move past this weird-ass conversation.” He frowns as they reach the door. “Oh, wait. Is that a pack thing?”

Peter nods. “Packs smell alike. It’s part of the way we stay connected.”

“Huh. Dude. Me and Lydia are like, _pack_. Actually, that makes total sense, not sure why it didn’t occur to me before. I’m gonna call it sleep deprivation.” He wonders for a moment whether his dad would count as pack, too, but Stiles imagines they probably don’t smell much alike with how infrequently they actually see each other. He reaches the door and tries the knob, finding it unlocked. “Oh man, thank fuck. I really want to be horizontal right now.” He turns to Peter, hesitating. “Anyway, uh…”

It occurs to him suddenly that this feels like the weird, awkward dance that always happens in the movies once someone’s finished a date. Along with the perpetual question: do you invite them in, or don’t you? Not that this is anything like a date _at all,_ except that Peter is closer than he’s ever been, right at the edge of the welcome mat, and his eyes are a bright, clear blue that takes Stiles by surprise.

“Don’t mind me. I know my way home,” Peter says after a long moment, taking a step back as his mouth quirks upwards.

“I mean, I definitely wouldn’t invite you in. Because you’re kind of a creep. And also this isn’t even my house. But, uh...thanks,” he says finally. “Seriously. You didn’t even kill me or anything. It was kinda nice.”

“You certainly didn’t take any precautions against it, if that was a genuine concern.”

“Eh. Wasn’t much I could do. I didn’t have my phone on me this time, and running seemed kind of pointless,” Stiles replies honestly. “Anyway, also thanks for ‘safeguarding’ me. Or whatever.”

“Hm. I thought you said you wouldn’t fall over yourself to th—”

“I can _definitely_ take it back.”

“No, no, this is fine,” Peter replies, amused. “You’re welcome.” 

“Great. Okay. Uh, goodnight, I guess.”

“Good morning, Stiles.”

With that, Peter turns to lope back toward the preserve. Somehow, he looks just as comfortable beneath the streetlights as he had in the shadows of the trees. Stiles watches him go, wondering where Peter Hale slips off to in the light of day, and then he quietly shuts the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scott and jackson: and so in conclusion, peter is not to be trusted  
> stiles: yes i see but he is also a giant creep how does that factor in  
> lydia: oh no
> 
> \- On Lydia/Jackson: As friends, I think Lydia and Stiles would hit the average of both their social statuses in comparison with canon (i.e. Stiles is a little more popular/well-regarded and Lydia less so, though they’re obviously still not the social "party people" kind of popular). So in considering what would and wouldn’t have changed from canon, I started thinking Lydia’s relationship with Jackson probably would have happened despite the obvious Stiles/Jackson enmity. Instead of using Jackson as a necessity to sorta cover her brilliance and retain popularity like she does in canon, I imagine their relationship as an experiment set up by a girl who’s bright and curious and a little ruthless: how would her relationship with him change how people approach her? Only then it “went wrong” and she actually caught feelings. There won’t be any defined Lydia/Jackson here fyi - don’t want to excite/disappoint anyone expecting it - but Lydia’s gonna do some quiet contemplation on the sidelines. EDIT: Also I straight-up forgot to mention there will be no kanima arc - Jackson's just a normal werewolf here :)
> 
> \- Anyway, guys it’s WORKING, this is technically two chapters in under a week! Hope you enjoyed, and please let me know what you thought <3


	4. Humans and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’re—gone?” Lydia manages after a minute or two, the sound of her footsteps falling away behind him. Stiles jerks around. It’s quiet except for their panting breaths, but she’s right: the wolves aren’t following them anymore. “Or—”
> 
> There’s a low, distant crack. A twig snapping, or maybe the rattle of a branch.

A few summers back, mostly to stop Stiles from begging, his dad took both him and Lydia to the shooting range.

Stiles’s campaign had been long and grueling, built on idle curiosity and a lack of anything else to fill his days. When he’s honest with himself, he’ll admit it was also built on the idea that it _might_ turn into a cool thing he’d have in common with his dad. A thing that would make people look at him and say, “Well, no wonder. Takes after his old man, right?” At the very least, it might be something he’d get out of being a cop’s kid that would make him seem cool instead of lame.

Lydia had gotten into it too, mostly because her best friend was so up in arms. (It probably had something to do with boredom as well, though. As always, she sped through their summer reading in a week.) In fact, her tactics had been the ones to win the war in the end. Maybe because Lydia never asked for anything. She’d combined her frequent wheedling with the fond, admiring smile she still reserved for Stiles’s dad sometimes, even though his days of making banana pancakes after sleepovers were long behind them. Even though she’d seen significantly less of him after his wife died.

Stiles hated the gun range almost the second they stepped through the soundproof door.

The deafening boom of gunfire pounded into his chest like physical blows. The entire place reeked of sweat and gunpowder. And when they finally got into the thick of it, the recoil knocked him back and he couldn’t aim for shit. (His mad gaming skills didn’t translate, somehow?)

Lydia wasn’t much better, though he could tell by the determined clench of her jaw that she might force herself to go through it all again, just to watch for signs of improvement. She was calculating with each bad shot, as she always was—testing each action like a scientist.

Stiles always wonders if his father was disappointed. If he had been, he’d never shown any indication.

Or maybe he’d known all along that this wasn’t for Stiles. Maybe he’d known that aggression and violence would never be who Stiles was. Maybe he’d just been waiting for Stiles to realize it himself.

Maybe he didn’t want to spend another Saturday at the gun range with his kid and his tagalong best friend.

Stiles can remember him taking back their guns after the third or fourth reload, which they’d done out of pure stubbornness rather than any continued interest. He can remember preparing for the _don’t give up_ lecture his mom used to dish out, or maybe the _all talents come with practice_ one.

Instead, his dad packed away the guns in silent thought, forgoing the instructive narration he’d offered back before their eagerness had drained away. “If anyone ever comes after you to hurt you,” he told them at last, turning to pin them with a solemn stare, “your best bet is to run like hell.”

.

“They’re playing _His Girl Friday_ out at the Cascade the night of winter formal,” Lydia informs him, without tearing her eyes from the road.

It takes Stiles a few seconds to process her words. He’s thumbing through an article about the Hale fire on his phone, a fourth reread.

Her statement comes apropos of nothing, and for a foolish moment, he almost asks her what she’s on about—except that he vaguely remembers seeing the classic movie poster last time they were out in Beacon Heights. Rosalind Russell’s in it, and if he gives Lydia an opening to talk about the emergence of the kickass Hawksian woman in film, she won’t let up until they’re home. “Okay. Cary Grant. I’ll take it. Wanna do one or both?”

“I was thinking both. We’d have to drive all the way out to Beacon Heights, but it’s a late showing. By then we’ll have ditched the dance, which…” she shrugs. “It’s fine. The dance could just be lame anyway.”

“Aw, Lydia, are we hanging out after winter formal together? I thought you’d never ask.”

Her lips quirk into a smile. “Can’t stay in like _total_ losers,” she replies, shrugging. They’re taking the scenic route from school today. The long, slow curves of road are close enough to the preserve that they’re shaded by trees, but they’re still close enough to town that distant houses are visible through the thick foliage.

Stiles watches red bricks flash by further off, considering their options. “Well, we could _._ ”

“I’m not spending hundreds of dollars on a dress, and hours on hair and makeup, to _not_ go to winter formal. Unfortunately,” she adds under her breath.

“Do you actually not see where not going to winter formal would relieve you of the burden of all these things and more?” Stiles asks cheerily, making a sweeping gesture with his arm like a game show host.

“You’re only saying that because you hate wearing anything more formal than a jean jacket.”

“I have a few select styles that work on me, and ‘formal’ isn’t one of them. But look, I’m just playing devil’s advocate. I could dance, if nothing else.”

“You could _try_ ,” Lydia snorts, and he only doesn’t elbow her because she’s driving. “Alright. Although I could stand not to see the most drunken versions of all the people I hate. That entire weird clique from Mr. D’s homeroom is going to be insufferable _._ ”

“Yeah, but we can pop out after the first ten minutes if we hate them. It. Whatever. The real question is, if we’re booked with winter formal and a movie back to back, and they’re both lame, can we drown ourselves in grease, fat, and curly fries and call it a night?”

“Are you asking rhetorically, or are you asking?” Lydia inquires, amused.

Leaning forward to toy with the radio, Stiles hides his grin. “Well, I just wanted to know if your delicate nutrition plan—”

“There is nothing delicate about my nutrition plan.”

“I know, I’ve seen the way you eat when you think it’s just you and pizza alone in the room together.”

“How dare you,” Lydia says flatly, but the effect is broken by the smile she’s fighting off her face. “You’re the one who—”

Something rushes into the road, a flash of brown, and Lydia barely has time to shriek before twisting the wheel aside.

Before the next breath, the car slams to a stop. Stiles isn’t sure if he blacks out for a second or if that’s just perception, if it’s all happened so fast he’s actually lost track of time. Pain blooms across his forehead and shoulder, and maybe into his vision, too: fireworks of color flare in front of his eyes until he blinks hard enough to chase them away.

There’s broken glass all over the dash in front of him. Dust from the airbags floats in the air, and Stiles coughs at the acrid chemical smell. When he straightens, he can see the hood of the car’s bent upward, the trunk of a tree looming just past the twisted metal.

He turns to Lydia, wincing at a sharp twinge at the base of his neck, to find her all scraped up. Her window’s broken, and there’s blood dripping from cuts on her cheek and neck. But she looks physically okay otherwise, if just as shocked as he is.

“God,” she manages, and her hands tremble as she gingerly takes them from the wheel. “God, we just…”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m...yeah. Are you?”

“I think so.” Stiles takes inventory, and while he’s not up to running any marathons, he’s also not dead. He struggles with the handle of his door. “What was that? What happened?”

“I don’t—I think it was a deer,” Lydia says. “It must have been.” She frowns dazedly, rubbing her collarbone, and then climbs out of the door.

Stiles manages to do the same. Together, they make their way around the front to stare at the hood of the car, which is twisted into a U shape around the trunk of an oak. The smell of burnt rubber wafts through the air. Stiles watches a column of smoke spiral into the leaves above. “Shit,” he says dully, feeling a faint buzz in his head, like he hasn’t quite processed it all.

“What _was_ that?” Lydia wonders aloud, turning to face him. Her eyes lock on something over his shoulder, and she grabs his sleeve. As if electricity has leapt through her touch, a jolt of fear courses through Stiles before he’s even turned.

He follows her gaze to find something dark creeping out from the treeline down the road several yards away. Maybe it’s the shadows of the canopy overhead, or the impossibility of what his eyes are telling him, or the head trauma he definitely just suffered, but the thing seems to take a long time to resolve itself into a shape he understands. When it does, it’s a half-wolf, lean and long, with a prowling, hunched back and thick hair down its face and forearms. Its eyes glint blue the way Peter’s glinted red—and that _means_ something, Stiles knows, though none of the scant sources they’ve gotten their hands on have agreed about what.

With another rustle of leaves, a second half-wolf approaches as well, face dripping with teeth that must each be as thick as Stiles’s thumb. Neither seems in any particular hurry to chase the two of them; in fact, there’s an oddly speculative expression on the humanoid bits of face Stiles can actually analyze. Even so, they step forward slowly and with purpose.

“Fucking _werewolves!_ ” Stiles hisses, grabbing Lydia’s bleeding forearm to pull her back.

“No shit!” she snarls through clenched teeth.

A thought occurs to Stiles as they slowly edge away, dry leaves crunching underfoot. “Is it—someone we know?” But even as he says this, he knows it can’t be true. Scott’s pack has seemed inept and sketchy in turns, but this kind of fuckery wouldn’t make sense for them. “Hey, do we know you assholes?” Stiles shouts, just in case, in spite of Lydia’s frantic slap. The only answer he gets is a curl of their tooth-laden mouths.

 _No way Scott and his crew would do this._ This is the strangers. The unknown pack. And Stiles can’t make out the intentions in their alien faces.

He knows instinctively that it’s bad to turn tail and run, because that’s not what you’re supposed to do with wild animals. And these guys look more wild than rational, even if they’re both sporting jeans and polos over all that fur. But with no other options, he and Lydia bolt away as one without a word between them.

Almost instantly, Stiles realizes what a terrible plan this is. They’re running _away_ from help, for one thing, because the wolves have conveniently placed themselves between the direction of town and the rest of the preserve. And they’ve got nothing to defend themselves with.

Still, they race down the road, Stiles praying that a car will round the bend ahead and either rescue them or at least witness the insane circumstances of their death. Nothing comes but the sound of a snarl at his right. Lydia jerks aside as a tawny flash speeds past them, and the two of them dart away from the wolf and into the trees. _These wolves are fucking_ fast, Stiles thinks in a panic, just as he realizes they’ve been herded out of the open and into the woods.

He expects to feel teeth at any moment, but the attack never comes. Still they run on, until the aches and bruises Stiles just earned from the car crash begin to make themselves known. He’s not exactly fleet-footed at the best of times, and he has to make a conscious effort not to tumble over himself, especially with the ground slick with damp leaves.

“They’re—gone?” Lydia manages after a minute or two, her footfalls stopping short behind him. Stiles jerks around. It’s quiet except for their panting breaths, but she’s right: the wolves aren’t following them anymore. “Or—”

There’s a low, distant crack. A twig snapping, or maybe the rattle of a branch. It comes from their left, and they both whirl around to peer into the foliage with wide eyes. Silence falls over the clearing for a few moments, and Stiles strains to hear over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

From the other direction comes another soft sound. A rustle of leaves, Stiles thinks, but the day is windless and the trees around them are still.

“They’re playing with us,” Stiles realizes, swallowing. He keeps his voice at a low whisper, unable to gauge how close they are. “Otherwise they’d announce themselves like Peter did, right? Or...Peter and the others said they might not be able to figure out what we are. So maybe they’re trying—trying to feel it out? To smell us?”

“What happens if they figure it out?”

“What happens if they _don’t?”_

Lydia swallows. “Come on,” she says, and sprints off into the trees again.

“Where are we going?” he hisses, speeding up until he’s just a pace behind her. A thought occurs to him. “Wait, Lydia! You have to scream! That—that banshee thing!”

Ahead of him, she ducks a branch and launches back into a sprint. “What the fuck, Stiles? You know I don’t know how—and I’ve _tried!_ ”

“But you’ve done it before, and all the research says it’s supposed to be, like, deafening, right?” He rolls his ankle and trips over a log but manages to right himself before he can actually fall, his stride stuttering for a few steps. “You could blow out their eardrums or something!”

“Stiles, I can’t just magically scream!”

“Why the fuck not!” Stiles hisses, frustrated with both of them. “What’s the point of having—”

“Why don’t _you_ just whip out your magic powers if it’s so _easy!_ ”

“I’m just saying—”

There’s a loud crash of leaves just ahead of them, and Stiles has about a split-second to feel floored that the wolves, quick as they are, managed to completely circumvent them so easily. Lydia screams, but it’s a normal scream—or at least Stiles’s eardrums are still intact a split-second later. One of the growling wolfmen approaches, too close for comfort, lurching forward—and then Lydia’s hand shoots out at it, misting something over its face.

It _howls,_ and Stiles is no expert on wolves yet, but it sounds like a howl of pain. And then: “Jesus, fuck!” it exclaims, grabbing its furry face as it backs away, and the very human (if very deep) tone is almost as surprising as anything that’s happened so far. Its tawny-haired partner slinks out of the woodwork to snarl ferociously at them, obviously more pissed than playful now that Lydia has proven them capable of lashing out. This one strides forward with menace; Lydia and Stiles stumble backward.

Before they can react, a dark blur flashes into view. It’s not another pursuer, though: this one’s a real wolf, or maybe a werewolf that’s shifted beyond what Stiles has already seen. Except that it’s _massive,_ with a head probably the same height as Stiles’s _._

At incredible speed, it darts forward and slams its shoulder into the tawny-haired wolfman before he can come any closer, and in the next instant they’re rolling on the ground, snarling and swiping bloody gashes into each other. The other half-wolf, still howling and swiping at its ruddy face, falls onto the wolf as well, raking its side with sharp claws. It’s all too fast for Stiles to see, just swirling blurs of brown and black and grey, glinting teeth and claws, and the radiant flash of blue eyes. _And red,_ Stiles realizes abruptly, hope surging in his chest. _Peter._

He and Lydia are frozen in place, Lydia gripping his arm like a vice. Stiles feels like they should probably run—especially considering the amount of blood splattering across the grass and leaves with every passing second. But his ankle is throbbing and he can’t convince his legs to take a single step. Mild shock, maybe? Lydia must be in a similar position, or so he guesses, because she hasn’t bullied him into moving yet.

Or maybe they should help, since Peter is at least their sort-of ally or whatever. But the wolves’ movements are so fast that Stiles feels any attempt would be like sticking a hand into a running garbage disposal. The most they can do is limp away from the worst of the snarls, staring.

“So. Pepper spray, huh?” he manages weakly, watching the full wolf practically gnaw one of the others’ kneecaps off.

“Oh. Yeah.” Lydia drags her eyes from the massacre to fish inside her pocket, pulling out a cylindrical pink keychain that fits neatly in her palm. “I was gonna tell you, I figured we should probably be carrying our shit. It sucked not having it the first time.”

“Smart. Gotta get a taser that fits in my pocket.”

“I’ll order you one, if we...” she gestures vaguely at the fight, just as the strangers shove the wolf into a tree hard enough to make the trunk snap. Or was that the sound of breaking bone?

“Survive? Dope.” Stiles realizes he’s actually still got his phone, which he’d slipped back into his pocket at some point on the drive. He pulls it out and frowns down at it.

Lydia follows his gaze, face a little pale. “Yeah, but who would you even call?”

“Exactly. Fuck me, is that _intestine_ hanging from that dude’s abs _?_ ”

“I’m pretty sure it’s part of his stomach, actually.”

At this point, the wolves have all given and gotten more than their share of wounds, or so Stiles hopes; he’s never seen a fight besides a slow-motion movie battle scene and hadn’t realized how quick one could be over. At any rate, he isn’t sure how they’re still standing, not a single one of them, and there’s considerably more swaying and limping than there was on the front end. The half-wolves, snarling something Stiles can’t make out from this distance, dart away and into the woods, dripping blood all the while.

The wolf that remains is covered in deep grey fur and matted with blood and viscera. It turns toward them, briefly letting its eyes glint red.

“Dude. Peter?” Stiles asks hopefully. “Please be Peter, because I don’t have it in me to run any more today.”

The wolf shrinks all at once, hair and teeth receding until it _is_ just Peter. If “just Peter” is just a man standing there with wild eyes and a savage snarl marring his face. He’s still splattered in blood from head to toe. Though the red stains covering his hands and elbows probably belong to the intruding wolves, the rest of the blood is at least half his own. It’s a wonder he’s alive at all, let alone able to stand without help—although, based on his expression, he may be running on sheer rage at this point.

 _Lone wolves go feral,_ a nagging voice whispers in his mind. _That’s what everyone says._

But while Stiles stands there considering this, Peter is potentially bleeding out. So before he can think it through, he’s stepping forward slowly, palms out. As if he’s approaching a wild animal (and _is_ he?), he murmurs in what he hopes is a soothing tone: “Dude, it’s okay. They’re gone now. But you need to sit the fuck down. Like, right now.”

“Stiles,” Lydia says, warning in her tone, but she doesn’t continue.

Peter’s glaring at him, mouth still curled around a snarl, but the longer Stiles stands there patiently, the more he seems to come back to himself. In the space of a few seconds, Stiles watches his expression melt from beast to human.

When he thinks Peter might not attack him for it, he reaches out slowly, telegraphing the motion as much as he can, and puts a hand on the man’s bicep. Which is coincidentally the place where there’s the least amount of blood. Again, no attack. “Okay. Cool. C’mon, just…” He manages to coax Peter down onto the grass and kneels beside him. “Oh whoa, your _leg!_ ” There’s a scratch or a bite or _something,_ and it’s so deep that Stiles really isn’t sure how Peter could have possibly been standing before. Blood slowly seeps out of it in a steady trickle. “Shit, you’re gonna—we need to—”

Lydia is standing at Stiles’s side, staring open-mouthed down at the werewolf. “A tourniquet?” she asks, and with surprising ease, she slips the belt from around her dress and hands it to Stiles. “But…”

Before Stiles can move to figure out what the fuck to do with it, though, Peter makes a gesture as if to grab Stiles’s arm. He seems to think better of it when he sees that his own hand is covered in blood. “I’m fine,” he murmurs instead, pulling his hand back. His voice is hoarse.

“You’re definitely _not_ fine,” Lydia retorts, her words a little frantic as she bends to look at the scratches in his shirt.

“I’m an alpha,” Peter counters, clearing his throat. “I heal quickly.”

Stiles pauses. “What? Heal? How quickly is ‘quickly?’”

Peter shrugs, pulling up the bottom of his henley. There _is_ blood on his abs (and also, _wow,_ those abs are as godlike as the whole upper part of him, which is a super inappropriate thought to be having right now, Stiles), mostly deep scratches from the other half-wolves’ claws. But when Peter stares pointedly down at his own skin, Stiles does too—and he can actually _see_ the skin repairing itself in front of his eyes, knitting itself back together in slow motion. It’s super intricate, like watching a line of ants on a sidewalk. Mesmerising. Impossible.

He and Lydia are both leaning in close, wide-eyed, and they jump a little in surprise when Peter’s skin starts to ripple. It takes a moment for Stiles to realize he’s huffing out a laugh. “Your expressions,” he says by way of explanation, amazingly composed for someone who Stiles was considering calling 911 for as little as thirty seconds ago.

“You just... _heal yourself?_ The fuck?”

“All alphas do. There’s a limit to what we can heal, but we’ll recover from most injuries,” Peter confirms, pulling his shirt back down. “Those two will have a harder time, though,” he notes, darkly pleased. “Betas heal more slowly, and wounds from an alpha are notoriously slow to patch themselves up.”

Stiles and Lydia stare at him for a beat longer, processing.

“Don’t misunderstand me; it _is_ sweet that you were worried,” Peter adds, condescension rolling off of him in waves.

Even though the words must be directed at the both of them, Peter’s looking at Stiles when he says them. A shot of heat burns through him, and only a small part of it is embarrassment. There’s something in that smile that sends a heady rush over his skin, making his face warm. “Forgive us for not wanting you to _die._ Lesson learned. It won’t happen again,” he says, hoping his face isn’t as pink as he thinks it might be. “Anyway, how did you even know where we were?”

“I’ve been following you,” Peter explains matter-of-factly. He raises a brow. “As you very well know.”

Lydia shifts in place beside Stiles, who winces a little. “Safeguarding, huh?” he manages, amused in spite of himself. “Just, like, all the time now, or what?”

“Well,” Peter begins, drawing the word out. “The other pack likely thinks _we,_ meaning the three of us, might be pack. At least if they’ve seen us together or smelled any of us separately in the last few days. Or tracked us through the woods. That theory, to them, makes far more sense than the alternative, which is that I am a lone alpha—again, we’re a relatively rare breed. And it would have been problematic for you to have no protection against them. After...recent events, I thought we’d confirmed that you need surveillance.”

Lydia’s folded her arms, and though Stiles won’t meet her gaze he can _feel_ her frowning down at him. “I may have been sleepwalking last night,” he says sheepishly, toying with the front of his hair to avoid looking up at her. “He _may_ have walked me home.”

She turns away and throws her hands up in exasperation, which is the Lydia equivalent of a temper tantrum. After a long moment in which Stiles meets Peter’s questioning glance with a helpless shrug, she turns back around to grind out, “Is the plan for you to _keep_ following us, then?”

“It seems like the best solution,” Peter replies carefully.

“Good,” she declares. In response to his raised eyebrows, she waves a hand toward the blood-spattered ground and adds bitterly, “We clearly can’t defend ourselves right now. And we’re not letting something like this happen again.”

Stiles frowns. “Yeah, obviously. This speeds up the timeline,” he adds, turning to Lydia. “We’re going to have to learn fast. We don’t have time for baby steps.”

Lydia sighs, folding her arms over her chest. “No, we don’t,” she agrees. The problem, of course, is that the primary resource for speeding up their research is sitting on the ground in front of him, and they’re still undecided on what to make of him. But if they’re going to learn more, if they want to know if their powers can be harnessed for their own protection, they might need to take a leap of faith.

It’s clearly something to settle later, though, away from prying ears. Stiles knows this even without Lydia’s meaningful glance.

“Stay with us,” she tells Peter. “Keep an eye out.”

“Usually, it’s the alpha giving orders,” Peter retorts. It could probably come off as threatening, given that he’s still covered in blood and spent the last few minutes cracking bones and tearing flesh. But he instead says it pragmatically, like he’s just curious about the response.

“Lucky you’re not our alpha, then,” Lydia tells him.

Stiles snorts, trying to imagine Lydia Martin following someone else’s commands without mutiny. “And even if you were, you wouldn’t be the one giving the orders in this relationship anyway.” It’s only when Peter gives him a _look_ that he realizes how that could sound to someone with their mind in the wrong place, someone like Peter Hale, and he reddens again.

He stands to cover his embarrassment, heaving a put-upon sigh as he realizes that he and Lydia, somewhere in all this, have jointly made the decision to trust the savage, bleeding man at his feet—even if the nuances still need to be discussed in private. “Can you stand?” he asks. Then, remembering the guy just saved their lives (even if he’s kind of a dick), he musters up enough concern to add, “I mean, are you gonna pass out or something?”

Peter rises slowly, seeming to take stock of his own injuries for the first time. “I’ll be fine. I’ll wash the blood off before anyone sees.”

“Great. Let’s get to the road,” Lydia decides, swiping Stiles’s phone. “We’re calling a tow.”

They pick their way back toward the damaged car as she dials. While she distractedly estimates the mile marker where they swerved, Stiles keeps a discreet eye on Peter. Just in case the werewolf is in direr straits than he’s letting on. For all intents and purposes, though, it’s as if the man is out on an errand instead of walking away from a literal bloodbath.

Peter deliberately catches his gaze the third or fourth time he looks over. Stiles clears his throat. “Uh, how’s the flesh wound?” he wonders aloud.

“Manageable,” comes the vague reply.

“Does it actually hurt while it’s healing?”

“Mildly.”

For someone who’s been so chatty about pack dynamics, he’s sure grown a sudden penchant for one-word answers. Stiles isn’t sure why he doesn’t take Peter’s hint, but he approaches from a different direction: “Are these normal weekday injuries for you, or is this level of bloodshed an outlier?”

“I’ve had to deal with worse, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I—wasn’t.” They step out of the treeline and into the shallow trench at the side of the road. The warped Prius is sitting a few yards away. It’s been, what, ten minutes? Fifteen? Peter’s healing from life-threatening injuries already, and Stiles’s scrapes and bruises are throbbing with pain he’ll feel for days.

As if he’s tacked onto Stiles’s line of thought, Peter adds neutrally, “Those, of course, are the other benefits of having non-were packmates: I’d heal even faster than this, for one thing. For another, there’s very little you could hit me with that wouldn’t quickly heal. In the case of a physical confrontation.”

When the meaning of this settles over him, Stiles nearly stumbles. Lydia, who’s just gotten off her call with the tow company, lowers the phone with a wary frown. “Excuse me?” she demands.

“Just a thought,” Peter offers, but there’s something subtle in his bland expression, something that makes Stiles suddenly _certain_ that he’s getting off on this. That, even though Peter clearly needs them—is practically courting them into his pack—he savors the discomfort he can cause with the right words. He likes them knowing he’s stronger, faster, more powerful than they could possibly be. _It’s a fucking power thing,_ Stiles realizes, furious.

“You know,” he says, turning to face Peter, “this whole time, I’ve been wondering if you’re really a human disguised as a monster or a monster disguised as a human.”

Peter smirks, though there’s something a little unpleasant about it. “I’m a werewolf, sweetheart,” he offers, tone dripping with condescension. “I play by both rules, by definition.”

“Wrong,” Stiles snaps. “You’re using your human and wolf sides to hide the fact that you’re a giant asshole.”

This seems to surprise Peter, as the acidity drains from his gaze. “Is that your verdict, then?”

Stiles makes an expansive shrug. “You know, if we’re ever gonna consider your whole offer or whatever, it’s not gonna happen if you keep making weird threats so you can entertain yourself by freaking us out.”

Peter cocks his head. “So you _are_ considering.”

Stiles glances at Lydia. “It’s still on the table,” she replies coolly. “God knows why.”

“Well. I’ll probably need to revisit my opinion of the two of you as ‘clever.’”

“ _There_ ,” Stiles says, pointing at him. “Do you see what I’m talking about? Just casual insults and threats thrown in for shits and giggles. You just—you’re making this really hard on everyone, dude.”

“I apologize,” Peter says. Stiles blinks, stunned, and Peter smiles serenely back at him. “I’ve been told I have a...caustic sense of humor, and I suppose it doesn’t come across well in situations like these. Obviously, there would be no need to feel threatened around me.”

“Obviously,” Lydia repeats, lacing sarcasm into her voice.

“You’ll have to see for yourself,” he remarks, hands slipping into his pockets before glancing over his shoulder. “Anyway, that’s my cue to leave. I’m sure we’ll see each other again, maybe sooner than you think.”

“What?” Stiles frowns. He and Lydia turn to peer in the direction Peter was looking. “What are you—” But Peter’s gone by the time Stiles glances back.

Lydia’s still scanning the road further off where it curves into the trees. “Wait, I think there’s something there.”

The tow truck rattles into view a moment later, lumbering down the road toward them.

“Super healing _and_ super hearing,” Stiles notes with a sigh. “Why would he tell us any of this stuff in advance?”

“What an asshole,” Lydia mutters under her breath, maybe conscious of said super hearing.

“I guess he _did_ save our lives or whatever,” Stiles muses as the truck stutters to a stop beside the car. “But yeah. Asshole. Why do I feel like this isn’t the only time we’re going to say that about him?”

“Well, it _could_ be,” Lydia remarks. They exchange a long glance, each struggling to weigh the pros and cons of partnering with someone like Peter Hale. With their research falling flat, there’s no way to know anything for certain—except, given recent evidence, that they wouldn’t survive a confrontation without him. “Yeah,” she says sourly, leaving Stiles to frown into the trees as she strides over to meet the tow worker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Of all the Martin/Stilinski parents, the sheriff is the only one even remotely involved in Lydia and Stiles’s lives still, but at a certain point you have to assume he was just like…“Time to throw in the towel - you’re raising yourself better than I ever could, even if I had the time for it.”
> 
> \- You can’t convince me that Lydia hasn’t made it her purview to know everything about badass women from any field. So why should film be any different? (Not to say that she doesn’t also make Stiles watch trashy rom-coms, too.)
> 
> \- I cannot stress enough that this is mostly a non-action-packed-thriller story, and I just don’t want anyone to get their hopes too high about ongoing fight scenes or anything. The much more chill vibe is coming in the next chapter, which I am insanely excited for.
> 
> I've really loved hearing your feedback so far, so let me know what you think! And as always, thanks for reading.


	5. Straight Outta Buffy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you gonna let us in or what?” Stiles demands, and he finally raises the bag of lukewarm Chinese takeout he’s been toting around. “We come in peace.”

Peter’s place is not what Stiles expected. Like, _at all._

At the same time, he’s not exactly sure what he was envisioning. Definitely a place teeming with shadows, though. Somewhere moody and silent, with a creepy basement in which to bury the bodies. An abandoned house on the outskirts of town, maybe? A cave system deep in the woods, or a forgotten bunker dug into the ground? The guy mentioned a library, though, so maybe there’d also be some weird-ass haunted version of the Restricted Section lurking in the damp.

“Are we sure this is it?” he wonders dubiously, tugging the straps of his backpack as he stares up at the building in front of them. Lydia’s frowning down at the map on her phone, loading and reloading the screen.

It’s a huge building, and upon taking in the number of doors, Stiles guesses it must be a multiplex or apartment or something. A townhouse? Whatever it is, it’s (dare he say) kind of _cute,_ with pale yellow walls and a cottage-style roof and lots of windows open to the sun. There are peonies reaching through the balcony railings, and ivy growing along the lower siding. Further off past the side of the building, wild trees and shrubs are sprinkled into the tall grass behind.

At last, Lydia shrugs and looks up at it again. “This is definitely it.”

“This _has_ to be about location. A werewolf thing. No way he’d live here otherwise. I mean, it’s the closest you can get to living in the preserve itself without actually being _in_ the preserve.”

“That’d make sense. Like everything else about this place was just a formality, maybe.”

If that’s actually what Peter was going for, this place is perfect: other than his next door neighbors, Stiles and Lydia walked past the nearest houses a quarter-mile back. The whole place is surrounded by woods on all sides, and it overlooks the edge of the preserve itself, which officially starts somewhere over the property line in the trees farther off.

 _It’s probably the kind of home you get in retirement_ , Stiles guesses. _The kind you get when you want a view of nature without being too far from a Kroger._ Of course, that sparks the mental image of Peter sitting out on his front porch and doing cross-stitch or something equally antithetical to his whole killer wolf vibe.

“It would also explain all the flowers,” Stiles says at last, snorting. Then he sobers. “I thought we agreed not to do stupid things.”

“We do when we have to,” Lydia says, and then she sighs.

Stiles echoes it. “And we have to.” He peers back over his shoulder. He’s never felt weird about being out in the preserve, but given recent events, he feels a little exposed. “The devil you know, and all that. Anyway. We don’t even know if he’s home.”

“Time to find out.” Lydia slides her phone into the pocket of her dress and makes for the front door. She hesitates, then rings the bell.

The door flies open at once, as if they’re expected. The two of them step back in surprise. Peter wears another of his deep V-necks, along with a disgruntled scowl. “I don’t recall telling you where I live,” he says flatly.

They’re both so shocked that he actually answered the door that it takes a moment for Stiles to work out a response. “Uh—well, you have a social security number and everything. A driver’s license. And you have traffic tickets and a rap sheet. Breaking and entering, apparently?” Lydia elbows him. “All that to say, there are records of places you’ve lived.”

Peter’s eyes narrow, though Stiles tentatively pegs the expression as considering rather than wrathful. “How did you get those records?”

“My dad’s the Sheriff. I just, you know. Found them lying around. As one does.”

“The school day hasn’t even ended yet.”

“For us, it has.” Lydia clears her throat. “Today we have independent study and then calculus last period, and they’re just reviewing for the test on Friday. We’re ready for it, so we ditched.”

“Yeah, if you’re only ‘safeguarding’ after school’s supposed to be done, you’re missing half of the shit we get into,” Stiles interjects, making full use of air quotes. Peter pins them with a long glare, and he can’t help but add, cheekily, “Not so fun when it’s turned around, is it?” (It’s probably stupid to kick a werewolf when he’s down—or at least caught off guard—but Stiles can’t help himself. And it honestly _is_ kind of fun for Peter to be the one scrambling to catch up for once.)

Anyway, Peter seems determined to work his way through the long list of reasons why they can’t possibly be here. “You don’t even have a _car._ ”

“I do have a car,” Stiles says indignantly. “Which is...not currently running. Because of poverty reasons.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “You’re not _poor._ You’re just senselessly practical. Besides, we took the bus,” she adds primly. “We’re not savages _._ ”

“I didn’t think you’d stoop so low. Or be so foolish as to willingly step into the woods where you were just attacked.”

“Again, we took the bus _ninety-nine percent of the way_ ,” Stiles retorts. “And besides, honestly? I kinda thought you were better at surveilling us. That you’d spring out of the trees like an axe murderer as soon as we set foot on your street to demand that we stop heading in the direction of your house.”

Peter’s eyes drift toward the ceiling. “You’re clearly begging for _someone_ to murder you both.”

“Because of our endless charm, right? Anyway, are you gonna let us in or what?” Stiles demands, and he finally raises the bag of lukewarm Chinese takeout he’s been toting around. “We come in peace.”

Peter shifts warily. “Is this because you’re considering my offer?”

“We’re... _considering_ considering it. Depending on how this next bit goes.”

After a beat, in which Stiles (and probably also Lydia) recalculates the stupidity of showing up at a werewolf’s place unannounced, especially a werewolf who has so recently bloodied himself up in a fight against another pack, Peter sighs and stands aside to let them in.

The inside of the house is, if possible, even more shocking than the outside. “Dude, who even _are_ you?” Stiles asks, taking in the bright, airy interior.

The walls are whitewashed brick, with a high, exposed-beam ceiling overhead. It’s a pretty open floorplan: to one side, there’s a cozy-looking sofa and armchair, with bookshelves lining one entire wall where there normally might have been a TV. To the other side is a spacious kitchen, with pots and pans hanging overhead and a planter of herbs growing on the windowsill. It’s all tasteful and sort of expensive looking, in an understated way.

“This is, like...really nice.” Stiles pauses as a sudden suspicion occurs to him. “This _is_ your place, right? You didn’t just kill someone and steal their house?”

Peter looks around, frowning as well as if unsure how to answer. It doesn’t inspire much confidence. “I bought it with most of the furnishings included,” he offers dubiously.

Lydia grabs the food from Stiles’s hand and brings it into the kitchen. Without asking, she starts pulling the containers out to set them on the table.

“So why are you both here, unannounced?” Peter asks resignedly, sinking into a seat at the table.

“To help Stiles stop sleepwalking all the time. And to learn how to defend ourselves.”

“Ah,” Peter says, sounding a little more interested. “When you mentioned that the other day, I thought you meant it as a theoretical future jumping-off point. Silverware’s in the drawer by the sink.”

Lydia turns to pull out some utensils. “Self-defense is a pretty immediate need at the moment.”

“And I imagine you’ll also want to speak to the emissary I mentioned?”

“We don’t need anyone else in the mix,” Stiles counters. He’s dumped his backpack on the floor by the sofa, heading over to browse the bookshelf. “We barely trust _you._ ”

Peter hums. “That’s fortunate. I would almost rather pull out and regrow my teeth than ask him for a favor.” He doesn’t appear to consider them potential threats, exactly, but he does seem unsure which of them to keep an eye on as they move about his home. “You two seem very distrustful as a rule,” he offers at last.

“It’s gotten us this far in life,” Lydia retorts.

At this, Peter finally smirks. “I never said it was a bad thing.”

Stiles prods a potted succulent out of the way and bends double to read the gilded spines of the books on the lower shelves: _The Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy, The Illustrated Book of Shadows, An Essential Guide to Modern Herbology._ He gently tugs _Le bestiaire mediévale_ from the shelf, running a hand over the cloth-bound cover. The pages inside are filled with illuminated artwork depicting a range of otherworldly creatures.

He flips the pages until he finds the entry for _Banshee,_ finding a toothy, woman-in-white sort of illustration across the side of the page.

“Straight outta _Buffy_ ,” Stiles mutters to himself, enchanted.

“I sincerely hope that wouldn’t make me Giles,” Peter says from just over his shoulder, and Stiles jumps a mile.

“Main role? No way. You’d be some rando side character, at best.”

Peter smirks. “And you?”

“Haven’t decided yet. Probably I alternate between Xander and Willow most days. Lydia’s Buffy for sure, though.” (In the kitchen, Lydia flips her hair, mock-preening.)

Settling onto the arm of the nearby sofa, Peter nods. “I see. And do you always consider yourself the sidekick?”

Stiles scowls before realizing Peter’s just needling him. Again. The werewolf has casually crossed his arms, leaning back with a neutral expression like he’s Stiles’s therapist. And Stiles doesn’t need any more of those.

“I’m not. And anyway, it doesn’t really matter to me,” Stiles retorts, flipping through the pages of the book.

For a long moment, Peter looks like he’s fighting to maintain a neutral expression. “If we’re going to be spending... _some amount_ of time together in the future,” he begins, “you really should know that werewolves have excellent hearing. We can hear heartbeats.”

“Okay.” Stiles shakes his head. Peter must have heard their hearts racing yesterday, he realizes, but he isn’t sure why it warrants a mention now.

“And the heart beats a little more erratically when you’re lying. ‘Skips a beat,’ you might say.”

Sudden understanding washes over him. Lydia exchanges a _what the fuck_ glance with him over Peter’s shoulder. “Cool,” Stiles blurts. “Cool, cool, cool. That’s not creepy at all.”

It’s a lie, obviously. By Peter’s amused smirk, he knows it.

“Look. Okay.” Stiles tries again: “Honestly, that’s super fucking creepy. And I’m gonna need you to immediately dial back this whole smug... _thing_ you have going on, because it’s really not doing anything for you in terms of giving off trustworthy vibes. Although I _will_ add that it’s hard to get trustworthy vibes from someone who’s been a walking lie detector the whole time without saying anything. So yeah, this whole—partnership thing, or whatever the three of us have going on right here, it’s a very provisional kind of trust. So try being less creepy. I mean, we’re not pack, but like you said, if we _were_ going to decide you’re kosher after this _,_ it’s at-will employment for everyone involved. Except me and Lydia, obviously. We made a blood pact once, so we’re beyond the bounds of trust.”

“‘Till death,” Lydia comments from the table. After a beat, she comes over to stand at Stiles’s elbow. “And let me just add, you haven’t actually won anyone over on the whole ‘pack’ thing. But if you were _going_ to, it would be through a well-stocked library.” She pulls the book from Stiles’s hands for a better look.

“Is that so?” Peter asks, quirking an eyebrow. “Well. In that case…” He walks over to the shelf, pulling out another book, one that’s a little more modern. “This is probably the book you’re after. It has the most up-to-date information about banshees and their behavior. Most of what I know of them came from here.”

Lydia graciously accepts the offering. “Alright. And then...a book of spells? For Stiles.”

This one takes Peter a few moments more, but at last he turns to them with a small, weathered hardback in hand. _A New Handbook of Spells and Rituals,_ reads the cover _._ “I don’t have many books on magic,” he admits, handing it to Stiles. “But this is, supposedly for those with the ability, an introduction to theory and general spellwork.”

“Great,” Lydia confirms, offering the werewolf a tight smile. “Then that’s where we start.”

.

The takeout’s getting cold, so Lydia and Stiles sit on the sofa to eat while they bend their heads together over the spellbook.

For some time, Peter feigns disinterest, idly stabbing at his lo mein. But out of the corner of his eye, Stiles catches him staring at the two of them with a weird expression on his face. Maybe a mash-up of chagrin and bemusement. Like he’s not quite sure what to make of them, not quite sure where his place is in their conversation. Like he half wants to tell them to get the hell out.

It’s only when they begin arguing over passages in the book, debating the meanings of tricky phrasing, that he jumps into the discussion. “No, it’s a general introduction to the theory, but that doesn’t mean it’s possible for a single person to have the power to actually _do_ all the kinds of magic it mentions,” he interjects, silencing them both immediately. “At least, not right away. And yes, ritual magic is relatively straightforward, but it probably isn’t for you, not at the moment,” he adds.

Stiles furrows his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s easiest to learn magic by specializing in a single branch of it _,_ instead of trying to learn everything at once. And as a total novice in your current...predicament, you’re going to need to specialize quickly.”

“So I can learn something other than what the nemeton’s making me do. And stop the whole sleepwalking thing.”

“Exactly.”

Nodding slowly, Stiles turns the page of the book. “Well, ritual magic seems easiest to learn, then—mostly chanted incantations, and having the right supplies on hand. Any idiot can do that, right? Or...maybe divination? I mean, I’d have to learn how to actually pronounce the stuff correctly, but…”

He trails off when Peter leans forward, shaking his head. The werewolf pulls the book out of his hands, flipping through it. “No, go back to the metaphor I told you when we were in the café: your ability to perform magic is like a blank page, at least when you’re first starting out. But in your case, the problem is that the nemeton has already written on that page _for_ you. You’re not starting from zero. If you’re going to revise what’s there and take control of your own magic in a short amount of time, you’ll want to learn something adjacent to what’s already on the page, to the magic that’s already taken hold. That way you’re... _revising_ what’s written instead of rewriting it from scratch. You’ll probably be fine with some ritual magic, but it can’t be your focus.”

“Meaning…?”

Peter finds what he’s searching for, and places the book on the coffee table in front of Stiles. “Earth magic.”

Stiles and Lydia lean in to peer down at the notes. “Lame,” Stiles pronounces. “Nothing cool, like astral projection or something? Even Lydia’s connected to spirit magic, which is way more badass.”

Peter frowns. “If we had all the time in the world, you could take your pick. But right now, this is your best chance. You’ll be able to dabble in other types of magic after a while, but let’s work on getting you a foundation in earth magic first.”

Stiles heaves a put-upon sigh, but it’s actually pretty nice _not_ to have to carefully weigh which path to pick. Besides, research and reading are two things he’s good at, so at least he’s back in familiar territory.

And so, settling onto the sofa, he reads.

Earth magic is all about balance. Nearly everything the book has to say about earth magic hammers that fact in, over and over and over. Nature itself is balance, and maintaining that balance is essential when it comes to earth magic of any kind. It’s the first principle of even the most basic spells he’ll try.

Some of the spells he might be able to do (if and when he shows any sign of _being_ magic, in a way beyond his nightly jaunts, in a way that lets him actually believe it’s all true) seem pretty cool. There’s a decent range in the kinds of spells he could work with, including spells that literally move the ground underfoot. Or it could be a lot more like this weird, metaphysical _communing with nature_ where he’s just super in tune with the world around him. And earth magic is something he can channel _through_ himself, pulling magic directly from the earth itself instead of relying on his own innate power—which could make for pretty powerful spells, apparently.

But right now, no matter how he looks at it or flips through the pages for a loophole, the only way to get started is to sit in a corner and meditate _._

“For the record, this is what I picture when I think of hell,” Stiles complains, shifting restlessly on the cushion in the corner. He’s staring at the wall, in the whole cross-legged _ohm_ position and everything. Like that’s supposed to make him feel like a functional yogi instead of a spastic idiot. “There’s a little more fire and screaming, but this is mostly it.”

“Stiles, you’ve only been there for ten minutes,” Lydia reminds him. He’s facing away from her, but he knows she’s probably already a quarter through the book about banshees. “Meditation takes a while for anyone to learn. Give yourself a chance.”

“I don’t really get how I’m supposed to, like, focus on my magic,” he admits, closing his eyes again. “I mean, focusing on my breathing was hard enough, you know? From that time when Mr. Meibos went off the deep end and made us all try it in Phys Ed—I just don’t have that kind of attention span. But right now, I don’t even know what I’m _looking for_ to meditate on in the first place.”

“Well, I guess the whole point is to find your magic, isn’t it? So maybe you should start by sort of taking stock of yourself. Like...I don’t know. Feel for something different.”

“Sounds complicated,” he groans.

“Stiles, I know it’s hard for you to focus sometimes,” she says matter-of-factly, without bite. “Especially for things like this. But you have to try _._ You know you have to.”

“I know. Alright,” he grumbles, and obediently gets back to it.

But it’s just as hard the second time around. And the fifth time. And the seventh.

He finds himself distracted, his mind wandering in the direction of his general worries. He starts thinking about how he’s been at this for ages already, or about the light chill of goosebumps on his arms. He tries to focus on his body, on the position of his limbs, on his breathing, on finding his magic or “something different”—and then the sound of birdsong outside the window jolts him back into the present.

From somewhere behind him, Peter and Lydia are engaged in a stilted conversation on the attributes of banshees. Tired of exerting his focus, he lets their words pull him in and drag him back out, ebbing like waves. But as time goes on, he can make less and less sense of each word’s meaning. It all fades into the background, like the low hum of a coffee shop.

Like the echoing pressure of deep water.

At last, he comes to that same dark place, the place where something in the green welcomes and wraps itself around him. He can’t quite remember why he’s come. But he knows he’s been there before, and there’s something profoundly familiar about it. Little by little he sinks into it, into the calmness of it all.

It’s not quite as silent as it’s been in the past, though. Or maybe it is: nothing’s changed, exactly, but he’s slowly realizing there’s something more to the gentle hum that vibrates in the air, echoing in his bones. The steady flow of energy, the constant gentle thrumming that feels like silence, like pressure, like _water_ in his ears. Only it isn’t water at all, it’s...life. It’s magic.

His heart drums along with it, like an answering song. He feels his thoughts slowly fading away, the warm, green energy flowing over him—

Someone shakes him roughly, calling his name. Stiles comes back to himself all at once, like a light switch snapped on. Peter’s kneeling in front of him, gripping him by the shoulders. “Are you alright?” the werewolf asks.

Stiles doesn’t know. “I…”

“Your heartbeat changed,” Peter explains slowly, removing his hands. Lydia steps into view as well, looking confusedly down at them both. “It sounded...different, somehow.”

“Yeah, it was...I was back with the nemeton,” Stiles says. “It felt like I do when I’m sleepwalking.”

“You imagined going to the nemeton when you tried to find your magic?” Lydia clarifies.

“Yeah. I don’t know why. What does that mean?” he asks, running a hand through his hair. “Why is the nemeton dragging me to it, even in the day?”

Peter shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he says at last.

Stiles peers at him critically, catching the wary frown. “But you have a theory?” he guesses.

The werewolf doesn’t answer right away. After a moment, he shoves his hands into his pockets and straightens. “Sparks are rare,” he begins at last. “Rarer even than banshees, and _far_ rarer than werewolves. Your power isn’t something that’s easily passed on, and there’s no way to create it in the same way werewolves do with a bite. It’s passed by birth only, and even then it often skips generations.”

“Okay,” Stiles says tiredly, wrapping his arms around his knees. “What’s that mean for me?”

“My guess is that maybe you—and potentially also your mother, though we’ll likely never know—are the only sparks that have been in the area at all, in generations. Maybe you’re the only spark the nemeton’s been able to get its hands on.”

“What do you mean ‘get its hands on?’ Why does it need a spark at all?” Lydia asks shrewdly.

“I suppose that’s the question. At the very least, it’s obvious that your magic’s been good to it. It’s been reborn when it used to be dying. And it doesn’t seem to be trying to actively harm you,” he adds, though his tone is a little doubtful.

“That...actually makes sense,” Stiles replies slowly. “Because when I’m there I feel more, I don’t know, safe? Alive? Or powerful, or something. Like its magic is around me, keeping me protected.”

Peter studies him for a long moment, leaning back against the wall. “It’s good that it’s not harming you,” he says cautiously, “but it would be complicated, being tied to a force like that. Earth magic is about balance, and the nemeton’s role is to create balance in the area under its protection. If it needs to, it’ll pull strength from you to create that balance.”

“I guess.” Stiles frowns thoughtfully. “But it’s a two-way street, isn’t it?”

“Could be. Regardless, it still seems better to get you out from under it. Better to have you free to make your own decisions about where your magic goes.”

Lydia nods. “That way, you’re the one in control. You just have to find your own source of magic, instead of following the nemeton.”

Stiles wants to be as concerned about all of this. He should probably be as concerned as the two of them look, at the very least. After all, there’s some unknown entity taking control of his magic and (more importantly) fucking up his sleep schedule.

But nothing about that green place feels as worrying to him as it probably should. And he’s not sure what to make of that.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees at last, and takes the book Lydia hands him.

.

To Peter’s obvious chagrin, Stiles and Lydia show up at his house every day for the rest of the week.

They’re already in the shameless habit of ditching at least an hour of class most days, usually one or more of the periods around lunchtime. To their mutual amusement, the werewolf appears perplexed by their continued presence in his life, looking vaguely disgruntled every time they appear on his doorstep (even though they now know he must have heard them coming). Regardless, he’s either simply tolerating them or actually warming up to them. It’s hard to say.

But they’re walking a fine line. Neither Stiles nor Lydia has forgotten Peter initially wanted to court them for his pack in return for all this stuff. That courting is the only reason he’s letting them walk all over him like this, using his house (and library) as a research base. So they’re careful not to take things too far, because after all, they do very much need his help.

Which is why they come bearing gifts of food. And why Lydia explicitly forbids Stiles to try and steal Peter’s key to make a copy for their own personal use.

“Don’t you have school _at all?_ ” Peter asks one day, sounding more confused than irritated. It’s Friday, unseasonably warm for fall, and Lydia and Stiles are camped out on the werewolf’s doorstep after getting no response from the doorbell. There’s a spread of breakfast muffins and fruit salad on the stoop between them. Stiles is balancing his spellbook on his knee, half a croissant in his mouth. Peter, who’s just come up the walkway to find them waiting, frowns and checks his watch. “It’s only nine-thirty.”

“There was no point in going to first period,” Lydia replies as they begin gathering the food to bring it inside. “Everyone’s working on a group project, and we finished ours last weekend. We haven’t handed it in yet, but I’m expecting top marks.”

Peter shakes his head and bends down to help. “Your teachers don’t mind?”

“’s senior year. They know we’re pre’y much mentally done,” Stiles manages through his mouthful. He swallows. “Besides, we always hassle them when we’re bored in class. It’s easier for them to leave us alone.”

“Yeah, once, Stiles derailed an entire physics lesson by getting the teacher to talk about the possibility of alien life on Mars for a full half-hour,” Lydia adds. “It was glorious.”

Stiles kicks aside the last of the crumbs as Peter opens the door to let them in. “Oh yeah! Dude, I forgot about that. Yeah, I’m pretty sure they’d rather we skip. They don’t even report it.”

“At all?” Peter asks, raising an eyebrow. He sets the container of fruit salad on the table and peers into it dubiously.

“No way. Last time a teacher started giving us detentions for skipping—”

“Mrs. Belmonte, who was the _worst_.”

“—Lydia scheduled an emergency three-day insect fumigation for her house.”

“And Stiles anonymously submitted some documents to the Board of Education suggesting her position was ‘unnecessary,’ which I _think_ was supposed to be a joke—”

“She did land in a lot of hot water over it, which was...yeah, my bad.”

Peter’s smiling. And it’s an actual, real smile, too: as they’ve found, Peter isn’t the type to judge them on what they’re “supposed to” be doing. “Well, best not to get on your bad side, isn’t it?”

It’s little stuff like that that pushes them through the awkwardness of their first meetings, maybe because it’s a weird relief to have someone who doesn’t make a big deal of the shit they do. After all, their peers, teachers, neighbors, and even parents hold them at arm’s length as a general rule. It’s kind of nice to have someone who doesn’t look askance at them—or at least if he does, it’s probably because he’s trying to work out something about their magic, or their past, or their chances of allying with him long-term.

But then, it’s only fitting. Peter’s used to being a loner himself, Stiles guesses. He’s really quiet, more disposed to observing with his intent stare than engaging in conversation. He’s hard to read sometimes, inexpressive, like he’s out of practice sharing what he actually feels, like there’s a disconnect between his thoughts and his occasionally severe facial expressions.

The thing is, though, Stiles and Lydia are kind of loners, too. Or they’re loners _together,_ in a weird way. They’re accustomed to spending long periods hanging out in silence, reading separately or doing their own research. That’s definitely not to say Stiles doesn’t have those periods where he’s pent up with energy, pacing and ranting aloud, or that Lydia doesn’t launch into an occasional diatribe over the latest injustice she’s fuming over. But they’re usually pretty comfortable with each other, just doing their own thing in the same room.

That makes it easier for Peter, probably. Most of their visits are spent reading in silence, with the occasional discussion of theoretical magic or odd, archaic phrasings. Peter’s welcome to join in—and he frequently does, interjecting with helpful background knowledge—but they also give him plenty of space to make that decision for himself.

After all, he seems to have his own personal research rabbit holes. He lays ancient books out over the kitchen table sometimes, or retreats into his office upstairs to type out long messages on his laptop.

Lydia spends most of her time reading up on banshees or sparks, or comparing her findings to their online research. The coffee table is her domain, her desk, and she’s usually hunched or cross-legged on the floor, chewing her pen cap and frowning down at her notes.

For his part, Stiles tries to meditate. What this mostly means is that he ends up napping on the couch—which in itself is really helpful. With the frequent sleepwalking (or tossing and turning with the anticipation of sleepwalking), he can’t recall the last time he had an actual good night’s rest. And he’s so freaking tired all the time now that sometimes he closes his eyes to meditate and finds himself instantly dozing off.

It’s all surprisingly comfortable. In Stiles’s private opinion, it’s even weirdly domestic.

But what’s even more domestic is the fact that Peter _cooks_. And does. (And god, can the man cook.)

Saturday marks not only the first time Stiles and Lydia come to Peter’s on a weekend, but also the first time they’ve asked permission to visit in advance (or technically, just confirmed on their way out yesterday that he’d be home). They come over around lunchtime, bearing a tribute of food as usual. But by the time evening’s rolled around, they’re both still so enmeshed in research and attempted meditation that they forget how long they’ve been at it.

It’s probably the longest they’ve ever been here: usually, they have to head back to school within an hour or two of arriving. At some point, when Stiles is taking a break from his ninth and slightly more successful meditation attempt, Peter’s beginning to clear his books off the kitchen table. In Stiles’s next attempt, he _thinks_ he’s finally beginning to make out the faintest traces of his own magic, warm and glowing in his core. When he emerges, though, it’s because he’s distracted by the most amazing smell. His stomach growls.

Lydia’s been drawn in as well. She’s still sitting by the sofas, but she’s turned to face the kitchen, where Peter’s working some culinary magic that makes Stiles’s mouth water. For a few minutes, they both pretend to invest their attention elsewhere, until Peter announces, “Come eat.”

He serves them two steaming plates of pasta—a tangy spinach alfredo—with a side of grilled lime chicken. Stiles and Lydia dive in like they’re starving, which Stiles realizes he pretty much is. The food’s so amazing he can’t help the moan that escapes as it hits his tongue.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” he tells Peter, shoveling more of it into his mouth. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

“We all have our own secret skills,” the werewolf replies pleasantly.

“I can’t even _remember_ the last time I had a home-cooked meal,” Lydia admits, digging into the chicken.

“Me neither. Probably years.”

“You don’t cook? Or your parents?”

Lydia shrugs. “They’re too busy to cook. Not sure they know how. Growing up, they had a nanny to cook for me, but nowadays it’s easier to just get takeout.”

“And I just steal her takeout,” Stiles grins, shoving more pasta into his mouth. “Or eat the microwave dinners I stock up on for dad.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s a good trick to have up your sleeve. You never know when you’ll need it.”

Stiles hums around another mouthful. The ensuing quiet should probably be awkward, filled as it is with the clinking of silverware and the crunch of crust as Lydia thoughtfully picks apart a roll of bread. But Stiles has a poor brain-to-mouth filter, and he’s never been as good as Lydia at haughty silences, and beyond that he’s powerfully curious about the stranger-turned-ally sitting at the table.

“What do you do, anyway?” he asks. “I mean, for work I guess. How have we never asked that?”

“Because you’re self-involved narcissists, I’m sure. Anyway, I don’t. Much. I do some legal consulting every now and then, but I’ve been turning down clients recently.”

“You don’t need the—?” Stiles pauses, because Lydia kicks him under the table, and he suddenly remembers that asking about someone’s finances is probably a shitty thing to do. Plus, he assumes Peter’s pretty well off from the insurance payout after the fire, which is an even shittier thing to mention. Instead, he asks, “What about all those times when you’re working on your computer? Or making calls upstairs?” He squints suspiciously at Peter. “What were you doing out this morning before you came home?”

“Not that I owe _you_ an explanation, but…” Peter raises an eyebrow. “Secret Werewolf Business.”

He says it seriously, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Stiles snorts. “Sure. Again, what does that even mean, anyway? Wait. Are you checking around for the other pack?”

“It does seem wise at this point.”

“ _Nice._ Find anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Huh. Well, let us know when you do, I guess.”

“We’ll see.”

Stiles frowns at him, along with Lydia, and just as he sees her indignantly opening her mouth out of the corner of his eye, he gets it. “Because we aren’t pack,” he clarifies.

“You’re catching on fast,” Peter replies wryly. He’s smirking, and Stiles can’t help but return it as though they’ve just exchanged a joke. Maybe they have.

Lydia looks kind of weirded out, pinning Stiles with a look that says they’ll talk about this later, and he changes the subject.

Peter allows himself to be pestered on other topics, though he does so with what’s clearly his baseline level of condescension, as if he’s royalty speaking to a plebian. But while the smirk never really leaves his face, Stiles thinks privately that the werewolf is enjoying the company far more than he lets on. After all, if Peter’s a lone alpha who won’t deign to associate with his remaining family, he can’t possibly have many houseguests. Let alone houseguests who are so obviously interested in everything about him, and werewolves, and his knowledge of the supernatural world. At the very least, it must stroke his ego enough to let them stick around.

Peter proves more than willing to ramble about the strange and dangerous creatures he’s encountered, or to mock the weird druids who’ve gotten in his way. He talks about weird talismans and ancient trinkets he’s owned or seen. The only topic he noticeably dodges in his stories is his lost pack, though Stiles can’t possibly fault him for that.

When Peter grows somber, Stiles pesters him about easier, surface-level stuff. Like the window garden, which is apparently partnered with a small patch of tomatoes out back. Like his cooking skills, which were borne of necessity because his mother tried to poison him (Stiles thinks this is a joke but can’t be sure). Like his legal work, which has earned him a steady stream of clients since his college days (“Of _course_ I went to college,” Peter remarks, rolling his eyes at their shock. “Were you expecting the werewolf equivalent of Hogwarts?”).

They sit for a while even after their plates have been cleared, Stiles wondering if the two of them have asked too many questions. It’s hard to figure out where boundaries are sometimes, and they’re out of practice caring enough to tread lightly.

But once they begin to clean up the kitchen, the silence is a comfortable one.

“So, that definitely wasn’t poisoned, then,” Stiles mutters to Lydia later, once they’ve packed their things into her car and said goodbye to Peter, like proper dinner guests instead of...whatever they all are.

“I’m glad you decided to ask that question now.”

“Well, I figured, his end goal is to get us to step into the fold or whatever. So what reason would he have to poison us, right?”

“Sheer annoyance, at this point.”

“Fair.” Stiles pauses, slumping in his seat with a yawn. “What do you think it would take to make him do it again?”

Lydia’s thumbs are tapping at the wheel as she turns them closer to home. Well, her home, anyway. “I think we should go easy on the demands. We’ve made kind of a lot of them.”

“Ugh. So sensible. Stop it.”

“Stiles, do _not_ do anything to fuck up my library access. We both need his books and knowledge right now. Besides, it’s been helpful to see him at home instead of…”

“Covered in blood?”

“I was trying to think of a more tactful way to say it, but yeah. If we’re going to make a decision about whether we want into his pack, you know we have to get to know him. The _actual_ him, not just the _werewolf_ him.” Her eyes flick to Stiles. “That doesn’t make much sense, but you know what I mean,” she mutters.

“Yes, I do.” Stiles frowns. “He hasn’t been _terrible._ ”

Lydia doesn’t respond for a moment. “No, he hasn’t been.”

“It’s seriously weirding me out. What kind of game is that? Being _nice?_ Is that…” he huffs. “What _is_ that?”

“I don’t know,” Lydia replies slowly. “But I guess we’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- me: this is a concise and Very Serious story. there will be no self-indulgent filler.  
> \- also me: searching for pics of the perfect sofa + cozy cashmere throw combo to describe Peter's library setup
> 
> \- If you have ever seen that one [photoset of Ian Bohen cooking](https://aurevell.tumblr.com/post/637519305619161088) you will understand that I HAD TO
> 
> \- Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Next time, we’ll briefly see Derek’s pack again, but more importantly we’ll also be catching Peter and Stiles alone - which should be fun!


	6. Definitions of Trespassing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the hell, Peter?” Stiles asks, letting his eyes adjust as he squints into the darkness. “Were you just creeping in on the whole conversation, or what? Plus my heartbeat?”
> 
> “That depends,” Peter replies, just a shadowed figure shifting closer. “Are you trespassing on the front steps of my apartment?”

It’s late in the evening, and Stiles is alone, when Peter comes back to the house covered in blood.

Lydia’s out shopping with her mom, one of those guilt-induced spending sprees she tends to take full advantage of. It’s not wholly unusual for Stiles to be left on his own for a few days when this happens, until Mrs. Martin finally feels she’s done her duty and spent a sufficient amount of time crawling back into her daughter’s good graces. Usually he catches up on his backlog of papers or dips back into an old video game. But he and Lydia have been spending most of their time at Peter’s anyway, and Stiles is pretty unwilling to sit alone at home twiddling his thumbs.

So he heads toward the preserve. He definitely shouldn’t have come out here alone, given the whole enemy pack thing. But boredom’s a powerful motivator, and at least there’s probably food at Peter’s.

Finding the windows dark and his knock unanswered, he sinks onto the front stoop. The next bus headed back into town is in an hour, unless he wants to call Lydia for an emergency pickup, so he debates how long he should wait to see if Peter shows up.

 _We seriously have to exchange numbers sometime,_ he thinks, watching the sky slowly melt from deep violet to black in the distance. _Assuming that’s a thing he’ll hand out to a non-packmate._

Crickets sing somewhere out in the woods. From an open window above, he can make out the low sounds of conversation from some of the other building tenants.

Stiles’s phone vibrates. He answers right away. “Yo, daddio. What’s up?”

“Hey, Stiles. You go to school today?”

“I went to almost all of school today,” Stiles confirms.

“That’s…” his dad sighs. “Better.”

“What, did the office call again?”

“No one has to call for me to know.” His dad sounds amused in spite of himself. “It’s fine. I’m sure you’re keeping your grades up. You at Lydia’s place?”

“Yep,” Stiles lies. “Just doing a movie marathon.”

“Alright. Good.” He hesitates, and Stiles frowns.

“Dad? What’s up?”

“Nothing, it’s...I’m going to be late tonight. Not sure when I’ll be back in.”

“Okayyy,” Stiles replies, drawing the word out into more of a question. This isn’t exactly uncharted territory for the two of them, and it doesn’t normally warrant a phone call.

“No, it’s just...there’s a situation out in the suburbs. Uh, potential homicide by drowning. Two kids around your age. And obviously that’s on top of those two women we found in the preserve a while back. It’s been a hell of a day. Just...wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, suddenly understanding. “Oh. I’m okay, dad.”

“I know you are. Yeah.”

“Are _you_?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s, you know. Tough job sometimes.” He clears his throat, and Stiles can hear someone talking in the background. “You see Dr. Walters today?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “ _Yes,_ dad.”

“Alright, don’t—...I’m just asking.”

“I know. I know you are, it’s just, you _know_ I hate therapy. He makes me feel like a dumbass.”

“I don’t think that’s the idea, Stiles,” his dad says patiently. “It’s just to help, so you’re not…”

“Going the same way mom did?”

His dad pauses for a long time. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another long minute of silence. “You know I just...worry,” his dad says at last. And it’s maybe the closest thing he can say to whatever it is he really thinks.

“Yeah, I know.”

His dad sighs on the other end. “Okay. Look, Stiles, I gotta go. I’ll see you…” he fumbles.

Stiles takes pity on him. “See you when I see you, dad.”

“Alright, kiddo. Night.”

“Night.”

He hangs up, staring at his dad’s photo on the screen.

“So why _did_ you skip therapy?” Peter asks.

Stiles swears, nearly dropping his phone. “What the hell, Peter?” he asks, letting his eyes adjust as he squints into the darkness. “Were you just creeping in on the whole conversation, or what? _Plus_ my heartbeat?”

“That depends,” Peter replies, just a shadowed figure shifting closer. “Are you trespassing on the front steps of my apartment?”

“Depends on your definition of trespassing,” Stiles returns.

“I believe you’ll find it’s always been ‘setting foot on someone’s property without permission.’”

“Do I not have permission?” Stiles asks mildly. He steps aside to let Peter get at the door. As he does so, he gradually recognizes a wary tension in the stiffness of the man’s limbs. “Hey...are you okay?”

Peter unlocks the door, makes way for Stiles to slip in, and quickly closes it behind them. Then, he shrugs off his jacket.

Stiles flicks on the light, and his mouth goes dry. “Your...what’s all over your…”

“It’s mostly not mine,” Peter offers by way of explanation. His shirt is ripped in places, with dark red stains covering one shoulder. Dark spots mar his hands and knuckles. His jeans are only marginally better in terms of blood, but there’s mud splattered from the hems to his knees.

“Dude, what the...”

“Kappas.”

“Excuse me?”

Peter heaves a frustrated sigh. “River demons,” he grunts at last. “A herd of them.”

“No, I know what kappas _are,_ in like folklore and shit. But you’re telling me they’re _real_?”

“So are werewolves. And banshees. And the other things I’ve mentioned to you.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean _everything’s_ real.”

“Most of it isn’t. A lot of it is, though.”

Stiles considers this. “Right on. So what, you just ran into one?”

“Several, and I tracked them down, actually,” Peter says shortly. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” he adds, raising one eyebrow in challenge.

Blinking at the cool expression, Stiles verbally backtracks. “No, I guess it—it really doesn’t. But I’m just…” Stiles shakes his head slowly, trying to take it all in.

Peter sighs. There’s something irritated or angry in his expression, something Stiles doesn’t often see directed at _him,_ at least not in the past few days _._ “It’s simple: Derek’s pack was doing a terrible job of keeping them under control. Technically, Derek’s larger pack makes him the reigning alpha in this territory, so this kind of defense should be under _his_ purview. However…” he shrugs.

“They’re dumb as a bag of rocks. So you just took it upon yourself to take them out,” Stiles finishes for him.

“Essentially, yes.”

“Wait...so, those drowned teenagers. They’re—?”

“Not members of Derek’s pack, no. Just kids who were in the wrong place, wrong time.” He walks past Stiles and into the living area.

“Oh...Okay. Shit.” Stiles stands there awkwardly for another moment, feeling strangely ungainly in his own skin. Peter’s giving off some weird vibes, like he’d rather be anywhere else, but Stiles isn’t exactly blocking his way out of the area. Stiles hesitates, trying to guess what’s going on. “Peter, are you hurt?”

At this, Peter seems to sag a little, looking down at the copper red of his own hands. His gaze draws Stiles’s as well, to the flecks of dried blood on his long fingers. “I’m healed now,” he manages at last. “I’m going to shower. There are leftovers in the fridge.”

He disappears down the hall, and Stiles stands there awkwardly for a bit longer, feeling distinctly brushed off. Or like he’s missed something important. But after a minute or so, it seems like there’s no point in letting whatever doubtless amazing leftovers Peter’s concocted go to waste, so he pulls out some buffalo chicken and roasted vegetables.

By the time he’s got everything warmed up, Peter’s back. He pads over in cozy-looking knit sleep pants and a grey henley, his hair still damp from the shower. And he seems more like his normal self, returning Stiles’s tiny smile with a brief one of his own. As he sinks into a seat, it occurs to Stiles that Peter might have been hoping to get home and clean up without anyone around. That he might not have _wanted_ Stiles or Lydia to see him all bloody and with his hair out of place. As if they hadn’t seen him that way already on the day he’d saved their lives in the woods. Or maybe, after a week of hanging around them as a human, he just hadn’t wanted to remind them that he _is,_ in fact, a fanged beast when he wants to be.

Stiles isn’t sure he’s right, but in any case, he’s careful to make things normal between them. Or as normal as they can be, given that it’s the first time it’s been just the two of them, without Lydia. As always, it probably should have been awkward, but Stiles carries on the way he always does: he babbles at Peter about the school day, gripes about being left alone while Lydia’s with her mom, tries to remember the last time his dad hadn’t been throwing himself into his work.

“It sounds like he doesn’t pay much attention to what you’re up to,” Peter comments offhandedly as Stiles makes wild gestures in the air with his chicken wing.

Hearing it put so bluntly stings a little, maybe because it’s so close to the statement that hovers in the back of Stiles’s mind: _he doesn’t really pay attention to_ you _._ But Peter isn’t wrong, even though Stiles initially disagrees on impulse.“It’s not that,” he says, and then thinks it over for a moment. “Or, I don’t know, it’s not like he doesn’t _try._ As much as he can. As much as I let him.”

Peter nods once, like he’s just slotted a puzzle piece into the right place. “Because he’s only keeping tabs on you by _asking_ you how you are.”

“I guess, yeah. How else would he? We don’t see each other that much. He’s been kinda throwing himself into work ever since Mom died a while back, doing a lot of work here in Beacon Hills and around the county.”

Peter stabs at his carrots, seeming to understand that it’s time to let the subject drop. The next one he chooses is worse, though. “Do you usually skip therapy?”

“What’s it matter?” Stiles makes a face. “I’m supposed to go, but I don’t anymore.”

“Seems like it wouldn’t be a bad thing to do,” Peter replies.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Peter takes the defensive tone in stride. “It means there’s nothing wrong with taking care of your mind, Stiles. Mental health is nothing to shake a fist at. And most of us could probably use a therapist,” he adds.

The wry tone suggests that Peter appreciates how ironic it is that, of the two of them, _he’s_ the one saying those words. Stiles allows the mild humor to deflate his irritation.

“Yeah, probably true. I tell Dad the same thing, but he won’t go to one himself. But anyway, it doesn’t work with _my_ therapist. I’m only in there because...well, because of the sleepwalking, and the weird dreams, and...yeah. My mom died of frontotemporal dementia, so everyone thinks I’m just having psychological problems related to that. And Dr. Walters...well, he thinks I’m making all this up for attention. Uh, which I know because I _may have_ gone through his notes this one time. So as you can imagine, I realized why our sessions have been unhelpful and stopped going. I just haven’t actually told Dad about that part yet.”

“Ah. Yes, it’s a little more difficult when your problems involve things your therapist doesn’t exactly believe in.”

“Yeah. But anyway, I’m meditating. That’s like, a baby step toward therapy, right? For me, at least. Usually I have trouble focusing on stuff like that, but now that I’m getting the hang of the whole ‘feel your magic’ strategy, it gives me something to work toward.”

“Like learning to sleep eight hours a night.”

Stiles snorts. “Sure. Maybe one day. In my wildest dreams. Which I’m not having, because I’m not sleeping.”

Peter shakes his head, but his expression is less cool and more amused, at least for a moment. Maybe that’s what makes Stiles ask, “Peter, you’re really okay? With the whole...kappa thing?”

“I’m fine now.” His expression drains into something a little more thoughtful. “Every once in a while,” he begins slowly, “I’m confronted by something that makes me realize the limitations to my strength.”

Stiles takes a beat to translate this. “Meaning you _were_ hurt,” he tries. “And badly? Before you healed.”

“Meaning...it was rougher than expected,” Peter concedes. “As an alpha, I’m not exactly powerless. But there’s only so much I can do on my own against a crowd, or against certain enemies.”

Stiles frowns. “Well, you should have...oh. I just realized earlier today, I don’t have your number. Do you have a phone?”

“It’s the twenty-first century, Stiles.”

“I dunno. Werewolves. Anyway, I’m gonna give you my number. You should text me about stuff like this.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, but after a long moment he obediently produces his cell, brings up a new contact entry, and hands it over. “So you can come to my rescue?”

“No, dude, I’d _definitely_ somehow get us both killed. But that way, I’ll at least know where to look for your body if you suddenly disappear. To send in the search party or whatever.” He taps his number in and hands the phone back. “It’s kinda like what I’m supposed to do with my dad, just tell him where I am and stuff. For safety. Only _you’re_ telling _me_.”

Peter takes the phone back, an unreadable expression on his face. “Alright.”

Stiles shrugs at him. “So if you go off on any more kappa hunts, you can text me. But also, I dunno. Just be more careful. Derek sounds like an asshole, but make him help anyway.”

At this, Peter snorts. “I think I’d honestly rather die,” he admits, “but it’s an option.”

“Don’t die, Peter,” Stiles tells him seriously. “If only because we’d probably never see your library again.”

“I’m sure between the two of you delinquents, you’d manage to break in and steal the books away before anyone else even knew I was dead. But I’ll do my best,” Peter replies, and he’s smirking again, so Stiles counts it as a win.

.

It’s actually kind of a myth that Stiles and Lydia do _everything_ together. Most of the kids at school think they’re some kind of nightmare twins, in a “you never see one without the other” kind of way. (It’s not a rumor they discourage.)

But the truth is, they both keep to their own spaces sometimes, sometimes from the need for a mental break and sometimes from an unwillingness to participate. Stiles occasionally allows Lydia to talk him into Macy’s runs but won’t do spa day; Lydia will occasionally deign to play Animal Crossing but won’t watch football. Healthy boundaries.

These days, though, they’re sticking pretty close together. The potential threat of the enemy pack hangs over their heads. And Peter’s acknowledgement of his own weakness has been oddly worrying.

So that’s how Stiles finds himself hanging out in the Spanish National Honor Society meeting after school, draped across a stack of chairs in the back of class in a place he _definitely_ wouldn’t normally hang out. Weirdly enough, this is Lydia’s element: she’s the behind-the-scenes VP, basically running the entire operation under the guise of a simple note-taker. It’s not really her favorite scene, but she’s Ivy League ready, so stuff like this has been her domain ever since they first set foot at Beacon Hills High.

Stiles likes to think of himself as Ivy League _adjacent._ He’s got the grades to make it somewhere close to wherever Lydia ends up, and probably to get at least a partial ride along with it, depending on the place. But he’s not gonna bust his ass to get into the quote-unquote _best_ school when he’s not even sure what he wants to go to school _for_.

Today, this works out to his advantage. Since he’s just lazing about instead of participating, his position at the back of the classroom has given him a pretty good view of Derek’s dumb packmates and the way they’re trying to be super sneaky but 100% aren’t. Every now and then, as he scrolls through his Instagram feed, he’ll see them peering into the windows out of the corner of his eye. Just flashes of hair, mostly. Or when he straightened up a few minutes ago, still pretending to be engrossed in his phone, he noticed them hanging around the door.

They’ve been way more visible over the last few days, ever since Lydia and Stiles started hanging out at Peter’s more. The pack scowls in their general direction over lunch, or frowns at them in the hallway between classes.

It’s getting annoying. And as the club president starts going over the plans for the _Día de los Muertos_ celebration, Stiles is finally bored enough to confront them.

“Dude, qué pasa?” he asks, stepping out into the hall. Isaac, Scott, and Jackson, looking mildly surprised at his appearance, turn to face him. Stiles shuts the door behind himself. “If you want homework help, styling, whatever—you have to make an appointment like everyone else.”

“You smell like Peter Hale,” Jackson growls, pacing forward.

“That’s real invasive, man,” Stiles retorts nonsensically, taken aback. “My smell belongs to me.”

“You think this is a joke, Stilinski?”

“I honestly have no idea _what_ this is. Maybe you can just spell it out for me, so I know why you’re stalking us all of a sudden.”

“Like we said before,” Scott interrupts, looking just as irritated by Jackson’s douchebaggery as Stiles feels, “We’re just trying to keep an eye out for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are you in Peter’s pack now?” Isaac asks abruptly.

Stiles is suddenly conscious that he’s going to have to be really careful with his words if these guys have their own internal lie detectors. He’s not entirely sure what he and Lydia are anymore, or what they want to be. “What’s it to you?”

“If you’re going to be in anyone’s pack—well, first off, you probably shouldn’t be in anyone’s pack, because it’s better not to draw attention to yourself if you can’t defend yourselves.” Scott begins, frowning. “But since you already smell like you hang out with a werewolf, and like you’re not just human—”

“If you _are_ going to be in someone’s pack, you should stick with us, Stilinski.”

“We’re a larger pack. We can look out for you more easily,” Isaac adds. “And we keep telling you, you can’t trust a lone alpha.”

“I think we’ll decide that for ourselves, thanks,” Stiles replies shortly. “Because honestly, hey, he’s recently saved our lives _and_ apparently tackled whatever kappa pest control issue you guys let slip through your fingers, _by himself,_ I might add, so he’s actually looking like the better option at this point.”

“He just— _we_ were taking care of it,” Jackson snarls.

“Didn’t seem like it when he came back, _by himself,_ covered in blood,” Stiles hisses back, a surprising amount of anger riling him up.

“Okay, look— _look,_ ” Scott interjects, dragging Jackson roughly backward in a show of physical strength he doesn’t even seem to notice. “This isn’t why we’re here. I mean, the Peter thing is... _worrying_ , okay, but the real reason is because Derek and Peter don’t talk to each other, ever. And you guys should know that other pack’s making moves.”

“Moves? What kind of moves?”

“Hard to say. They’re just circling. Letting us smell that they’ve been close. Like a threat.”

“What have they said?”

“Nothing. We’ve barely seen them.”

“Okaaay…”

Isaac shrugs, seeming to understand Stiles’s confusion. “That’s just how packs work. It’s like, if you’re a werewolf, what they’re doing is an obvious threat. It’s instinctual. They’re encroaching on our territory, like they did before with just one of them, but now it’s _more._ ”

“Jesus.”

“Look, we’re all...fairly new at this,” Scott admits as Jackson paces behind them. “I’m sure Peter’s told you that. You seem to be new to the whole supernatural thing, too, but you don’t have anyone to watch your back when things go wrong. We could help _._ ”

“We’ve got Peter.”

“For whatever that’s worth,” Jackson snorts under his breath. “Look, setting aside all the shit about lone alphas being crazy fuckers, you have to realize Peter’s not exactly in a good position to defend you from anyone.”

“Sure. Because he’s alone. Which makes you think he’s weaker.”

“Which _does_ make him weaker. Hell, if anyone in that other pack is thinking of starting their own pack, a lone alpha is like a pretty invite tied in a bow. No betas to defend him, no pack bonds to strengthen him. All they have to do is put one wolf down, and they’re off to greener pastures.”

“Yeah, I think they’ve realized what a bad idea that would be. Peter’s already held his own against them.”

“Not all of them at once, the way I heard it,” Isaac points out.

Stiles shifts backward, pressing his shoulder blades against the wall. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Look, just...consider it.”

“Tempting,” Stiles replies. “But I don’t think so. Anyway, didn’t we cover all this a while back? How many times do we have to turn you down?”

Scott looks at him doubtfully. “Okay, but—” he sighs. “Look, it’s just that these guys aren’t people you want to mess around with. They’re…”

“They’re a little spooky,” Isaac finishes. For a second, something about his expression makes him look very young. “They come and go. We can’t really feel them out.” Even Jackson sobers up a little, like he’s reflecting on this fact as well.

“Okay,” Stiles says at last. “We’ll...be more careful.”

The door swings open before they can really wrap things up. The club meeting’s over, and Stiles steps back to let about a dozen chattering students flow between him and the werewolves. Lydia’s one of the last ones out, her bag flung over one shoulder and Stiles’s backpack over the other. She raises her eyebrows, looking between Stiles and the others. “What’s this about?” she asks him, wordlessly handing over his backpack.

“Just a chat,” he says eventually. “Let’s get out of here.”

The others don’t follow as they head down the hallway, but Stiles thinks he feels their eyes on his back. He and Lydia remain silent, though Stiles feels full to bursting, until they’re _pretty_ sure they’re out of werewolf earshot.

“So?” Lydia asks expectantly, once they’re outside in the afternoon sun.

He fills her in on the creepy warnings they’d given him. “The thing is…” he says slowly, once he’s done explaining, “I think they’re right.”

“Come again?”

“Not—well, not _entirely_ right. We’re definitely not joining their pack, but...wouldn’t it be better if it _looks_ like we have? More specifically, wouldn’t it be better if, to anyone looking at this whole cluster from an outsider’s point of view, we look like one big, happy family? The three of us and Derek’s crew?”

“Hm. That’s a really good idea,” Lydia murmurs thoughtfully. “If someone’s circling like they think, it’s better for all of us to look stronger. We need to look like a united front.”

“Exactly. Otherwise, we look like...well, like we probably look now. Half-assed and easy to break apart.”

“I’m in. But it’s something we’re definitely going to need to run by Peter. If our... _not-pack_ is going to join Derek’s pack, he’ll have to be sold on it.”

“We’ll make it work,” Stiles says, then frowns. “Probably.”

.

“When you boil it all down,” Peter explains, sprinkling some kind of fancy spice blend over the steaks, “there are really only two ways to make a move on another pack.”

It’s mid-evening, and though Peter hasn’t exactly seemed pleased with their idea, he hasn’t shot it down yet either. Stiles thinks he just needed a little time to get over his _severe_ aversion to his nephew. Earlier, the werewolf paced irritably while Stiles and Lydia ignored him, working their way through foundational magical theory.

Half an hour later, Peter seemed fine. Stiles gets it; adults throw their own tantrums sometimes.

Of course, the werewolf had then immediately recruited Lydia and Stiles to help him with dinner. Whether that’s meant as some sort of punishment, Stiles isn’t sure. All he can do is chop the carrots gingerly enough that he doesn’t accidentally take off a finger as well. Lydia’s not faring much better with her potato peeling; she’s tossing more potato than peel. Between the two of them, it’s pretty obvious they don’t exactly know their way around a kitchen. Peter seems to get some kind of perverse amusement out of it.

“Hit us with it, big guy,” Stiles replies, nibbling on a carrot slice.

Peter shoots him a look. “The first way is politics. It’s a pretty broad umbrella, and there are infinite strategies: find a way to subtly break their alliances and isolate them, make their alpha appear weak. You can adopt one of their members. You can also have one of your own marry into their pack to gain a foothold, or simply make your pack indispensable to them in some way so they rely on you.”

“Alright. And the second way?” Lydia asks, frowning down at a particularly lopsided potato.

“The second way is a direct attack. For example, you can start an all-out territory war. If you win, you call the shots for the survivors. If you prefer, you can make sure there _are_ no survivors, which is...a little cleaner. Easier to make sure you’re telling the only story in town.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Telling a story to who... _m_?”

“Werewolf packs don’t exist in a vacuum. We’re...well, first of all, we need to keep our territory safe, and that includes keeping it safe from other packs who are eyeing it, maybe looking for a larger piece of land. To do that, usually, we maintain alliances with neighboring packs, making sure we’re in their good graces. We take care to be good neighbors, essentially. And so most of the time, we don’t want to be caught with werewolf blood on our hands. It makes us look like a threat instead of an ally.

“Even though moving on a pack politically can take years or even decades, it’s usually better in the long run. If other packs are watching, you can say everything’s been done by the books. It’s clean.”

“So the pack that’s circling _us…_ ” Stiles begins.

“They’re probably not moving politically,” Peter answers. “Not at this point. They’ve flubbed all the social niceties you’d take normally care of when entering another alpha’s territory. Like introducing yourself,” he says wryly.

“Because they just don’t care about what other packs think.”

“Yes,” Peter agrees, tilting his head thoughtfully. “There’s that. Or they’re intending to go with the ‘no survivors’ option. It’s hard to say what their motivations might be. My guess is they’re likely hanging around nearby, scouting the areas around the territory. They’ve probably got a temporary base somewhere between here and Reno, I’d bet: there are hundreds of acres of free land that doesn’t belong to any pack. But that’s just what _I_ would be doing.”

Something in his words sparks a question that’s been bugging Stiles for a while. “Why camp out at all? Why not just go for the throat? I mean, they definitely started off like they were ready to attack us all.”

“They probably were,” Peter says. “But if they weren’t expecting much resistance, _and_ if they still can’t tell what you two are after those betas were close enough to smell you, they may be rethinking their next steps. Just in case you’re something that could mess with their plans. Not to mention the fact that they’ll want to map out the entire territory, including the land across our borders, to make sure we don’t have any hidden allies or tricks up our sleeve. That’s the kind of knowledge helps when they finally attack, _and_ when they start building in the rubble. But that kind of surveying takes time.”

He pauses for a long moment, then shrugs. “What I can tell you for sure is that we probably still look like a very welcoming target, even if we’ve given them some surprises. Our pack was virtually destroyed by the fire. Even years later, we’re still...fragmented. Two alphas, one with a tiny pack and one alone. We look weak. We’re easy prey for a pack looking for a new home.”

“But then what? They’ll tell the neighboring packs everything’s fine? No big deal? I mean, they can’t wipe _all_ of you guys out before someone else notices. Right?”

“They really don’t need to,” Peter says grimly. “We attacked them first. They’re just following through.”

“The beta that Derek’s pack killed,” Lydia realizes.

“Exactly. They...well. It would be very bloodthirsty of them to have planned things this way, but it _is_ fairly convenient that a relatively new beta was out in our territory all alone. Especially since we haven’t seen anyone else, with the exception of the two significantly more experienced betas that attacked you in the woods.”

Stiles frowns, processing this. Peter hardly notices at all, tossing the vegetables into the roasting pan before working his magic with the spices from his cabinet. “Wait,” Stiles says slowly. “Are you saying they _intentionally_ sent out a weak beta? Someone they knew was...I don’t know, too much of a newbie to hide his tracks?”

“Or even a beta with an aggressive enough temperament that Derek’s babies would _have_ to put it down in order to defend themselves?” Peter shrugs.

“That’s barbaric,” Lydia mutters to herself, but she’s obviously turning the idea over in her mind. “Do you really believe that?”

“It’s impossible to say, but it’s...a theory. Before I was an alpha, back when my pack was alive, it used to be my job to have theories like that. I was the Left Hand, the one responsible for watching our backs.” He pauses. “Whatever they are, though, I think they’re smart.”

“We are, too,” Stiles replies. “Or at least we will be,” he amends. “Knowledge is power, and all that. There must be some way we can help. We literally have _magic powers._ Which so far have manifested in really annoying ways, but yeah. They’re there. There must be something we can do, to...fight back, or to learn what they’re up to. To help somehow, at least.”

Peter slips the tray into the oven and leans onto the table with a smile. “A little magic would be useful right about now,” he says grimly.

.

The nemeton comes to Stiles in his dreams again. Now that they’ve identified it for what it is, Stiles doesn’t understand how he’s never recognized the space as a _forest_ before. The whole thing makes him feel like he’s floating, like the air’s as pressurized as deep water, except that leaves glint in the dimness. They shimmer around him like currents, or like the water’s surface, all different shades of green.

The magic is still there, of course. Stiles feels it more than ever, a hum pulsating in his very core. But it’s outside of him as well, identical to what powers the leaves, like it’s all the same. Like branches growing from the same tree.

He wakes gradually to find himself in his own bed. It’s just past dawn, by the pale light in his window. And it’s the first time in a _long_ time that he hasn’t tossed and turned all night, or woken to find himself standing on the stairs, or straight up walked out the door.

But that’s not entirely true, he realizes a beat later. His bedsheets are itchy, and he pulls them down to find mud all over his bare feet and calves. “What the hell?” he murmurs to himself, wondering how on earth Lydia managed to get him back here from the preserve. And all without waking him.

He checks the time on his phone—just after six. And messages from Peter.

 _Good morning. Sorry about the mud,_ one reads. _You wouldn’t stand still long enough for me to figure out how to clean up before you got into bed._

 _You’re grumpy when you’re tired,_ says another.

Stiles’s face heats up at the thought of Peter shepherding him back from the woods in the middle of the night. While he was half-awake and unable to remember anything.

 _And what’s it mean that I'm "grumpy?" And that there’s no mud on the carpet? Does that mean Peter carried me back to bed?_ (Fuck, the only solution to this is obviously death. Either his or Peter's. He's not picky at this point.)

Stiles runs a hand over his face and considers his reply. He settles on: _thank u so much, dude. sorry u had to do that. guess i really do need to wear shoes to sleep._

There’s a response almost instantly. _No trouble. I was in the neighborhood._ And then: _You’ve been sleepwalking a lot lately._

_idk, i guess shit’s getting real._

_Seems like it is. Let’s have you try your first spells soon. Maybe it will help._

_hope so. we’ll see._

There’s no response. Stiles stares at the screen for a long moment, then sets the phone down on his chest.

Something about all of this feels very big all of a sudden, too big for Stiles to understand. Too dangerous. The sleepwalking, Lydia’s ghosts, enemy werewolves creeping out of the woodwork, _Peter._ If he weren’t so exhausted, he’d probably be awake all night and roiling with anxiety, picking apart the details and circling around and around until his thoughts become little more than a jumbled mess.

Instead, he thinks about Peter loping toward the preserve, slipping between the trees on his way back home. Even now he might still be walking back. Stiles imagines him reaching the woodland edge: new saplings sprouting at the edges of the forest and then, further across the wide and rolling earth, the sturdy old growth of the deep woods.

In his vision, the woods stretch on in endless shadow, the gentle hills rolling beneath them, around them, through them, until the darkness itself is threaded with deep green. The vision—the dream—rolls over him, dragging him into slumber with the pull of its tide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This is a bit of a calm chapter before things hopefully pick up a little next time (I swear I really do have this whole thing outlined, it is just…very much in flux at all times because ideas attack me at terrible moments)
> 
> \- As stated in the chapter, Stiles does not have a healthy opinion of therapy because he is dealing with lots of supernatural stuff that his useless therapist wouldn't help with, not because the need for therapy makes you somehow "less than." There is nothing better than a good therapist so please take care of your mental health <3
> 
> \- Derek is coming next time I SWEAR, also there will be Hints Of Steter
> 
> \- Thank you for the kudos and comments! They've been hugely motivating and you honestly probably wouldn't be getting chapters quite so fast without them ;-)


	7. A Gathering of Packs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek’s loft is, of course, crawling with werewolves.

It’s funny how easy it feels, the three of them heading off to Derek’s together. How normal. Almost like there’s never been a time when Peter _wasn’t_ a member of their outsider gang.

Probably they could have let Peter get there by himself. But by unspoken agreement, Lydia and Stiles swing by after school to pick him up. Lydia’s car is a newer model of her totaled Prius in the same neutral silver shade, and Peter only briefly raises his eyebrows at it before climbing into the back seat.

The werewolf directs Lydia downtown, where newer buildings and apartments stretch across a couple blocks, virtually the only part of Beacon Hills where you can pretend you live in an actual modern city and not a small town aspiring to be more. And as it turns out, once they reach the top floor, Derek’s loft is a lot like Peter’s— _nice._ Not, like, _Million Dollar Homes_ nice, but nice enough that you know he put actual money into it. It’s wide open and airy, with a huge window that takes up the entire east wall and a gaping skylight overhead. One door must lead to a private area on the side, and there’s also a spiral staircase rising from the corner of the room. It’s big enough to fit a real pack, probably, or at least the kind of pack composed of teenagers who just need a meeting space and not dorm rooms.

(Between Lydia’s instant car replacements, Peter’s forest-view apartment and free dinners, and this guy’s loft, Stiles thinks he’s gonna get a complex from hanging out with people who are richer than he is.)

But the other impression Stiles gets, almost immediately, is that it feels way less “lived-in” than Peter’s place. Sparse furniture, bare walls, no personal touches. No books. It’s like Derek bought the space but resented having to make an effort to fill it, so he brought in the minimum stuff he needed to make it liveable (which, based on Peter’s withering descriptions of his nephew’s forethought, could very well be the case.)

The other thing is that Derek’s loft is, of course, crawling with werewolves. This shouldn’t be a surprise to Stiles, but somehow he isn’t actually expecting the watchful crowd.

The whole pack from school is already present: Boyd, Isaac, and Erica are sprawling on the sofa, with Jackson and Scott mid-argument beside the window. Once Peter opens the door, the five of them grow quiet. They say nothing in greeting, their faces grim as they glance instead toward the side of the room.

Stiles follows their gazes to find a guy and girl he’s never seen before. The guy is probably Derek, who’s maybe a half-inch taller than Stiles, with dark hair and a stern frown-slash-grimace-thing that reminds him of Beacon Hills High’s worst teachers. Next to him is a girl who’s clearly a relative, if her own matching frown is anything to go by.

All the general scowling taking place in the room leaves Stiles feeling like they’re pretty unwelcome, enough to make his steps falter a bit as they enter.

But Peter takes it in stride. “Hello, dearest niece and nephew,” he remarks, a cordial smile on his face. “Overjoyed to see you again.” Stiles knows him well enough by now to catch the disingenuousness.

Derek offers his uncle a flat look. “Desperate times,” he grunts.

As Stiles and Lydia stand awkwardly in the doorway, like guests wavering at the sight of a private skirmish they aren’t sure they should witness, Peter waltzes across the room to make himself at home in a chair near the sofa, hands stuffed casually into his pockets. “Yes, of course. Well. I’d love to dive into social niceties just as much as you would, but we _are_ pressed for time. And I have the feeling you really don’t care how your dear uncle is getting on.”

Stiles is struck by the picture they make: Peter’s smug face and Derek looking like you’d expect a werewolf to look, snarling and bad-tempered enough to bite. Lydia catches his eye while everyone else is distracted. _What a drama queen,_ she mouths, aware of the wolves’ keen hearing. Stiles can’t even figure out which one of them she means, and he doesn’t quite manage to fight back a snort.

It’s enough to catch the attention of the other Hales. “So _these_ are the two you guys told us about?” the girl asks, frowning.

“What’d he tell you?” Lydia demands suspiciously, at the same time as Stiles blurts, “The supernatural weirdos? Yep, that’s us.”

Derek looks them up and down, unimpressed.

“Allow me to introduce you,” Peter says, grandly waving Stiles and Lydia in. He jerks his head at Derek and the girl. “These two are my niece and nephew, Cora and Derek. The others you already know, I think. Niece and nephew, these are the talented Stiles and Lydia.”

“Please,” Lydia says under her breath, flipping a strand of hair over her shoulder as she at last strides forward, Stiles at her heels.

“Great, we all know each other,” Stiles adds. “So…”

“What exactly can you do?” Cora interrupts, though not unkindly. She’s staring as if she can size them up simply through a glance, arms still folded over her chest.

“That seems like a rude question,” Peter admonishes mildly.

Cora turns to glare. “If we’re trying to look like a unified pack, shouldn’t we at least pretend we know each other? Enough to plan and coordinate movements?”

“The key word being ‘pretend.’”

“Most of us kinda do. Know each other, I mean. From school,” Stiles shrugs, glancing at the other wolves, all of whom have slowly gathered closer. “Shouldn’t be too hard for an outsider to believe we’re in this together.”

“Yeah, I’m telling you—based on school stuff, we want them on our team,” Scott interjects. He approaches the table to stand beside Stiles. “They’re pretty well known for, uh, getting stuff done behind the scenes,” he adds, rather diplomatically.

Derek frowns. “What’s that mean?”

“Well, like...when they banned chewing gum from school two years ago. He and Lydia set up this whole black market for it. It was actually kinda cool, the teachers were going _crazy_. They couldn’t figure out how everyone was suddenly blowing bubbles whenever they turned their backs.”

Stiles likes Scott, he suddenly remembers. In the time that’s passed since they were kindergarten playmates, he’s forgotten how puppy-dog loyal Scott is. Funny to see it coming out now, though, ages afterward. Presently, the weight of everyone’s gaze falls onto them.

“Plus, there was— _is_ the whole makeup and homework payment system,” Erica adds.

Lydia’s smirking a little. “We made a killing, just starting that up,” she says flippantly.

“Still making it,” Stiles adds. Lydia holds her palm out, and he slaps it without looking.

“Oh yeah. Anthony Haskell stiffed you on paying for the essay you wrote for him last year, didn’t he, Stiles? And then you emailed the teacher anonymously—”

“I heard that was something to do with the gum ban.”

“No, you’re thinking of that kid who ratted them out over—”

“Plus the rumor that Lydia never works in calculus ‘cause she has something on the teacher.”

Peter’s moue of intrigue has intensified at the same time as Derek’s frown. “Alright,” Derek grumbles, eyebrows furrowing more deeply. He looks like he has a headache, but Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because of the conversation or the tension from his own eyebrows. “Look, we’re here to figure out what to do about the foreign pack, not make new friends.”

“Why not both?” Stiles asks under his breath, more as a protest against the tone than anything else. He’s largely ignored—though he notes that some of the Beacon Hills High division of the other pack hide their smiles.

“Well, first, why don’t we get on the same page about what’s already happened?” Peter begins, raising his eyebrow. “Why, dear nephew, did one of you kill an enemy wolf?”

Everyone in Derek’s pack bristles at this, whether because of the condescending tone or the topic of their wrongdoing. “An accident,” Derek grinds out at last.

“Uh, no offense,” Stiles interjects, before Peter can say anything that will make things worse, “because I honestly don’t know a ton about werewolves. But...how do you _accidentally_ kill someone?” Okay, that wasn’t much better, and the chill factor in the room is getting worse, but he’s trying. “Or, I mean—”

“You’ve been hanging out with Uncle Peter,” Cora counters. “Why don’t you ask _him_?”

Stiles is sure he isn’t the only one who gets a little panicked at this statement, envisioning a bloody fight between the three Hales that goes down just like the one in the woods a while back. But Peter’s expression doesn’t waver at all. “I’m sure the circumstances are important,” he offers.

“Alright, so what happened?” Lydia interjects impatiently, before any other insults can be thrown.

The other wolves shift a little, and Stiles realizes that they’re quietly deciding who’s picked the short straw. “We were baited into it,” Scott admits at last. “He wouldn’t let up.”

Erica shakes her head, a furious scowl on her face. “Yeah, that asshole kept tracking us, even after we made it clear he should get lost. And then he came at us _,_ and…”

“And it went downhill from there,” Isaac finishes grimly. He actually looks a little green, Stiles thinks, and it occurs to him suddenly that the rando werewolf guy from the other pack was a living, breathing being once, not just a pawn in a game, and that he’s dead now. And someone from _this_ pack killed him. Which, for new cult converts, is kind of a scary baptism into the world of werewolf culture. He wonders somberly who it was.

Peter’s giving them all a pitying look. It’s probably meant to seem sympathetic—or for all Stiles knows, it really isn’t—but it mostly looks patronizing.

Lydia jumps in again. “Okay. So who was this guy? Wolf. Person.”

“Aaron Egler,” Isaac says at once. “From his...well, we have his wallet and ID and everything.”

“Egler,” Peter murmurs. “You’re sure?”

“What’s it to you?” Derek demands.

“There used to be a pack from southeast Washington allied with your mother. Their alpha had that same last name…but I’m not sure what it means for them to have come down all this way.”

“Could it be a coincidence?” Lydia asks.

“It might be.”

She studies him. “But probably not,” she guesses. He only shrugs in answer.

“Either way, what are the options?” Stiles wonders slowly. “Can we talk to them, if you know who they are?”

“Unlikely at this point, if it _is_ them.” Peter replies. “Not when one of theirs has been killed here. I doubt they’ll respect a request for a peaceful chat even if they _do_ have good intentions.”

“Fantastic,” Erica sighs.

“I can try digging up some details using Mom’s old connections,” Derek says, though his grumbling tone suggests that he’d either be unhappy to do so, or that he’s doubtful it will get them anywhere.

“What’s left of them, anyway,” Peter adds.

Cora shoots him a look. “Deaton might know something,” she offers, barely masking the hesitation in her voice. “He’s an emissary. It’s his job, right?”

The three Hales are doing some weird stare-off that everyone else in the room pretends not to notice. Stiles remembers the disdainful curl to Peter’s lip back when he mentioned not wanting to associate with the former Hale emissary if he could help it. _Maybe that guy gives_ all _of them the heebie-jeebies,_ he thinks.

“We can start looking into them, too,” Lydia adds out of nowhere. “Stiles and I.”

“Didn’t you just learn about werewolves like, ten seconds ago?” Derek snorts.

“What kinds of connections do you have?” Erica jumps in, shifting forward.

Stiles recognizes in her hopeful expression, mirrored by Isaac and Scott, a desperation to move the conversation along without room for more taunts. He can honestly say he understands the feeling. _I guess that’s one way to get two packs on the same team,_ he realizes with amusement. _Give them a bunch of assholes they have to work together to manage._

“Just the normal human kind,” he offers. “You know, research, digging up dirt. Lydia brings the paid databases, and I bring whatever police intel I can grab from my dad’s computer without being caught. Although that probably won’t be much, if anything. Since they aren’t even from the area.” He pauses, thinking. “And anyway, disclaimer: we don’t know much about the supernatural, so we’ll have to just pull up anything that seems weird or interesting, I guess, and you can tell us what we’re looking at. Or, well, Peter can.”

Boyd and Isaac nod as Peter shoots them a considering look.

“But all that’ll take time, in addition to anything else you guys are doing. What’s the plan if they make a move before we learn anything helpful?” Lydia asks.

“Is killing on the table?” Erica asks. From her flippant tone, Stiles thinks it’s a joke at first, but she waits intently for their alpha’s response.

Derek frowns. “Technically, they attacked us on our own territory. But it’s our word against theirs. And wiping out an entire pack is a sign of bad faith if we’re going to maintain or get alliances with other packs. It’ll bring way more trouble than it’s worth.”

Though Derek shows no sign of seeking his uncle’s approval, Peter inclines his head. “They’ll probably try to cow us into submission through fear at this point—encroaching on the territory, surrounding us. They’ve already been trying. But if their pack is strong enough, and if _they_ don’t care about shattering any regional alliances (which we don’t have, though they aren’t aware of that), they might eventually go for the throat. Which seems much more likely at this point.”

“What’s that mean?” Stiles asks warily.

“More than likely, they’ll try to wipe us out. As I said before, if they’re telling the _only_ story, it’s easier to control it. They’ll try to separate us, the strongest from the weak. Which is something we can’t let happen,” he adds pointedly, “and a reason we need to be helping each other, as much as I hate to admit it. Beyond simply creating the appearance of a single pack.”

Derek guesses where he’s going with this just as Stiles does. “So you brought them here to convince us to babysit them _,_ ” he says flatly.

Lydia bristles, but Stiles jumps in first. “We’re not _that_ useless _._ We don’t need you to.”

“And you expect us to drop everything and do it?” Derek demands, still talking only to Peter.

Lydia scowls at him. “Look, Stiles and I came here to figure out how all of us can help each other _,_ not to beg for help if you—”

“Which certainly isn’t what’s happening,” Peter interjects, raising an eyebrow. “But you do— _all_ of you—need to keep an eye on each other for the sake of security. Human or otherwise. And since everyone in this room _without_ the last name ‘Hale’ attends the same school, there’s no reason any of you should be alone while you’re there, or while you’re coming or going. You two are human enough that you can’t defend yourselves against a wolf at all, and I suspect the rest of you are too new to defend yourselves long if you’re cornered alone by multiple wolves. Am I wrong?”

The room grows silent as everyone lets this sink in. “Alright. Fine,” Lydia allows with a huff. “Let’s...let’s just try to figure out what’s actionable. Like making sure no one goes anywhere alone. We can compare our class schedules and extracurriculars, just to be sure no one’s left out. Stiles and I share most of our classes, so we can follow the buddy system.”

“Which hasn’t exactly been a foolproof plan thus far,” Peter interjects mildly. “You’ve been hit once.”

“What does that mean?” Scott asks.

“Yeah, they attacked us just outside the preserve,” Stiles replies, with a level of calmness that isn’t at all proportional to how he actually feels about what happened. “Honestly, if it hadn’t been for Peter we’d definitely be dead.”

The look Derek gives his uncle is pure fury. “What the hell? You didn’t mention _that_ before.”

Peter shrugs coolly. “We’re mentioning it now.”

Stiles glowers at them both before taking in the antsy, unsettled movements the other betas seem to make whenever their alpha grows angry. “Look, that’s what this whole meeting is _for,_ to make sure we’re all on the same page,” he says, trying to make his tone as pacifying as possible. And sure, none of them came here to beg, but if showing a little vulnerability is what it takes to make this alliance happen, he isn’t above it. Not with the memory of three fighting wolves snapping each others’ bones like twigs. His own bones are way more fragile.

“Okay, honestly,” he admits, “we could use you guys’ help to make sure nothing like that happens again, like we’re a part of the pack too, and we have pack protection or whatever.”

Following his lead, Lydia glances around the room, then down at the floor. “It was pretty terrifying,” she confesses, a bit grudgingly, after a beat. “No offense to anyone here, but it would be nice to never have a werewolf fang pointed in my direction again.”

This, at least, seems to be enough for everyone in the room to sober up. Derek and Cora are doing some kind of weird nonverbal communication thing, a language based mostly on eyebrow movements. “Fine. You’ve got pack protection,” Cora mutters at last, disgruntled.

“Okayyy. Easy as that?” Stiles asks, surprised.

“Mom always thought it was basically our job to protect the territory and those in it,” Derek grumbles. “And whatever you two are, it seems like you’ll maybe help us do that. Or at the very least, you’re not actively trying to cause trouble. Plus, looking like a larger pack works in our favor, too. If the tradeoff is watching your back every now and then around school hours, so be it.”

And just like that, maybe just because of Derek’s approval, they make it work. Peter and Derek and Cora mostly hang back as the rest of them work out buddy systems according to their schedules and exchange numbers where warranted.

Afterward, Lydia has the idea to set down a schedule for patrols and scouting, but Peter vetoes it right away. “Leave the scouting to Derek, Cora, and I for the time being,” he says, glancing at his nephew with an unreadable expression. “If we’re going to figure out where they are now, it’s better to have someone experienced, just in case. We don’t want to start another fight without any idea of their plan.”

The implication being, Stiles realizes, that they really don’t need one of the newbie betas to make the mistake of killing an enemy wolf again. The other pack grows a little restless at this, but Derek nods once, and they hold their tongues.

_But still, it’s something,_ Stiles thinks as he watches Erica and Lydia debate the maximum distance the wolves should be from them under the buddy system, based on their keen smell and hearing. Which up until now, Lydia has known relatively little about, except that she possesses some metaphysical power to assimilate info on the go. The others are a little less wary now, less standoffish. Maybe even Derek and Cora as well.

_It’s a start._

.

Later, though, on the ride back, Stiles abruptly blurts, “Dude, Peter, you’re like... _really_ bad at the whole diplomacy thing.”

“I wasn’t exactly trying,” Peter counters. Stiles turns to find him staring out the rear window. He’s resting his chin on his fist. “That’s not really my strength.”

“Shouldn’t you try to _make_ it your strength? Instead of being all…”

“Condescending?” Lydia offers.

“I was going to say ‘dickish,’ but let’s do it your way.”

“All of my experience is in being the Left Hand—which requires a completely different skillset. And my nephew is predisposed to be wary, so it wasn’t the most appropriate environment for you to witness my exceptional diplomatic skills.”

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he thinks his whole head moves too. Lydia’s face takes on an exasperated smile-grimace, one that’s usually directed at Stiles himself, one that says _God, you’re an idiot._

“So, what, you were just gonna run in there and hope for the best?”

At this, Peter turns to face him. “The two of you really came to the rescue in that department.”

Stiles stares flatly back at him. “That’s what you were hoping for, isn’t it, you asshole,” he mutters, turning back to face the front. “Someone new, someone Derek wouldn’t be able to say no to.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t trust me, but he’d trust people his mother would have taken under her wing. People who seem to be in need of protection.”

“Seem to be?”

“And besides, it wasn’t about bringing someone he couldn’t say no to. It was about bringing someone who’d understand how to get him to say _yes._ ”

They’re almost all the way back to Peter’s place. The trees on both sides of the road creep closer and closer as they go, throwing long shadows over the pavement. “How…” Lydia begins. “How can you _know_ if a group of people—werewolves—are part of the same pack? How would the other pack know?”

As he always does, Peter takes the random question in stride. “You can’t know for sure, not really. If it’s your own pack, and if you’re a werewolf, you can feel the pack bond between you and someone else, as long as both of you have accepted them. You know instinctively who’s in your pack. Even humans can feel the bonds to a much lesser degree, or so I’ve been told. But as an outsider, there’s no way to be _sure_ who’s in a foreign pack _._ It’s mostly just guesswork, based on the fact that packs tend to smell the same and to coordinate their movements. Even the little bit of the other betas’s scent that you two will carry on you from a few days of the buddy system, along with the fact that you’ll be seen more often together if anyone is spying, will be enough to make them assume you’re all pack.”

“Hm,” Lydia grunts by way of response, and Stiles can practically hear wheels turning somewhere in there. For his part, it makes Stiles think: the other pack’s been wary because they don’t _know_ anything. They don’t know who’s pack and who isn’t; they don’t know what Lydia and Stiles are, and whether or not they should be wary.

_Maybe that’s still working to our advantage, at least for now,_ he thinks. He glances at Peter in the rearview mirror. _And the fact that we’ll be sticking together more closely should keep them off our backs. It might protect all of us long enough for us to figure something else out._

When they reach the apartment, Lydia slows the car to a stop. Peter pops out wordlessly, rapping a goodbye on the window, and heads up the walkway.

Stiles finds Lydia raising her eyebrows at him. _Now?_

He gives her a helpless shrug, unable to keep the corners of his mouth from ticking upward.

“You know...” Lydia begins, “I think we’d actually make a good pack.”

“‘Good’ is a strong word. I’d give you a firm ‘passable. But he clearly needs us.”

“Clearly. No sense of diplomacy or self-preservation. He’s basically useless.” Smiling now, Lydia tilts her head to peer over Stiles’s shoulder.

“Werewolves have excellent hearing, you remember,” Peter calls to them, his voice muffled by the window. He’s standing in the open door, halfway into the house, with an expression that shifts too quickly to understand.

“Even so,” Stiles replies casually, as quiet as he would if Peter was standing right next to them. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing ever.”

The werewolf offers a rare smile instead of his customary smirk, and it makes his whole face look open. Hopeful.

It makes Stiles’s heart thud too. But that, he reminds himself, shouldn’t really matter.

.

Lydia’s hard to read sometimes. It’s in the way she was raised, probably, because both of her parents are the same: closed-off gazes, standoffish frowns, no casual touches, rare discussions of feelings. She’s usually better around Stiles, or maybe it’s just that he knows her well, that he can add up the tiny microexpressions to predict the trajectory of her thoughts.

The next day on the drive from school, he finds her antsy. Not in the same way Stiles is most of the time—jittering, and with the tendency to ramble or grow flippant. There’s just something hazy in her eyes, like a fog that distances her the tiniest bit from the rest of the world. The thing is, there’s no confronting Lydia when she gets like this. It only makes her waspish and moody, taking questions as a personal affront.

Instead, he pretends he hasn’t noticed, letting her come to him when she’s ready. He fills the comfortable silence with chatter, carrying on entire conversations on his own as they drive over to Peter’s place after school.

It doesn’t happen until the car pulls up in front of Peter’s, the tires crunching over dead branches and dry leaves in the street. Stiles doubles over to grab his backpack, and it takes him a beat to notice that Lydia hasn’t moved to turn off the car. He blinks at her in confusion.

“I’m just dropping you off. For now,” she says eventually, not meeting his eyes. “I’m going to meet Jackson at the park on Windsor. Just to talk. I’ll be back later.”

Stiles manages to school his gut reaction, which is _So he can rip your heart out again?_ Or maybe _Even after you’ve literally spent months trash-talking him?_ Or maybe _Do you really want to be like all those on-again, off-again celebs you make fun of?_

But while he and Lydia consult each other on a great many things in their lives—most things, even—Stiles is more than capable of understanding when a decision is untouchable. This is one of those times.

Lydia doesn’t respond well to anything she conceives of as pity, so he nods and carefully looks away until he can gather his thoughts. Even then, it’s not quite enough.

“Stop that,” she snaps.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re making stupid faces.”

“This is just my face. Look, Lyds...you get to make your own decisions. But you know Jackson’s an asshole. And that’s all I’m gonna say about it.”

“Yes, but he’s _my_ asshole. Don’t make a stupid joke!” she adds before he can open his mouth. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “I guess I do. Are you two...?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. But I want to get some answers.” She pauses, turning away and looking down the leaf-cluttered lane. “He’s okay now. More...willing to talk, finally. Now that I actually know what he is, and about all the supernatural things that have happened, and why things got so complicated between us.”

“You probably shouldn’t be going anywhere alone, though,” Stiles tries. “Buddy system and all.”

“I texted him. He’s not far. He’s gonna drive behind me.”

Stiles sighs and nods again. “Okay. Yeah. Uh, good luck, then? I guess.” He pulls the door and slips out of the car.

“You can feel free to say ‘I told you so’ as soon as things go wrong,” Lydia adds tightly as he grabs his things.

“You know I wouldn’t,” Stiles replies, and slams the door behind him.

.

A half-hour later finds Stiles sprawled across the floor beneath the front window of Peter’s house, an afternoon sunbeam staining his skin bright gold. He’s given up on meditation after too many tries gave him a headache, and he’s instead scowling at a book that’s done nothing to wrong him. He digs his heels into the edge of the coffee table, dogearing a page with a particularly gruesome illustration.

“Funny how casual the two of you get with other people’s property,” Peter grumps from the kitchen table, where he’s been practically glued to his laptop screen.

Stiles jumps at the sudden break in the silence, guiltily smoothing the page under his fingers, but when he cranes his neck to look at Peter, the werewolf is glaring pointedly at Stiles’s feet. Stiles obediently lowers them to the floor. “That table’s Italian,” the werewolf grumps, but before Stiles can decide how to respond, he asks, “Do I want to know what’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Nothing. No reason,” Stiles mumbles, flipping through the pages again.

“Your heartbeat, Stiles,” Peter reminds him calmly, and Stiles grumbles under his breath. “What’s different?”

Stiles frowns. “Nothing’s _different,_ really,” he replies. “It’s just the same old thing again, Lydia and Jackson. Dunno why she’s always running off to him. He’s the worst and she’s the best. Doesn’t add up.”

The chair creaks slightly as Peter shifts in it. “There must be something there,” Peter says diplomatically. “For her to go back to him.”

“No idea what,” Stiles grumbles. “Guy’s a dick.”

“Maybe he isn’t in Lydia’s eyes.”

This brings Stiles up short, because actually, that might be kind of true. Practically speaking, it _has_ to be true, which he knows but hasn’t wanted to consider. Jackson’s a dick, but he’s a dick to pretty much everyone in his immediate surroundings except Lydia. They both have their classy rich people sensibilities that Stiles doesn’t share (that _no one_ at their high school shares, really), and a vain kind of snobbishness that makes them either great partners or great enemies. The world has yet to definitively find out which.

“He did miss a flight to Vegas to take her to the hospital once, right before some spring break excursion thing,” he remembers. “Except he didn’t know at the time she was only using her ‘illness’ as an excuse to skip class. She didn’t feel like doing the mandatory SAT prep that day. Never heard the end of _that._ ”

Peter mutters something Stiles is sure must be very flattering.

“I guess accepting your best friend’s boyfriends, even if you hate them and even if they’re trash people, is ‘the adult thing to do,’” Stiles laments, using copious air quotes. When he glances over at Peter again for confirmation, the werewolf looks patently amused.

“It depends on what kind of adult you want to be,” he responds.

“And if I want to be the kind of adult who buries Jackson in a shallow grave outside of town?”

“I’ll bring the shovels. It’s my duty as an alpha.”

Stiles smiles. “Burying the bodies?” Which, okay, technically this has been a true thing Peter has done, so Stiles shouldn’t find it amusing.

“Helping to shield you from retribution for your crimes.”

At this, Stiles snickers. “God, you’re gonna have your hands full with that.” It’s funny, though: he gets kind of warm at the thought of someone in his life, someone besides Lydia, actually watching his back when he’s busy being a little shit. Then, something makes him pause. He lowers the open book onto his chest, no longer pretending he might really read it. “Hey, if you’re the alpha, couldn’t you just tell her—or, I guess _order_ her—not to do something like this? In theory. Not that—you know.”

“That’s not really how it works. And I’m not really that kind of alpha.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says dismissively. “Let people make their own mistakes or whatever, right?”

“Not at all. It’s just too far beneath me to meddle in my betas’ relationship dramas.”

“Mmm. Hands-off approach. Very smart.”

“It doesn’t have to extend to _all_ my betas, mind you.”

Stiles frowns in confusion at the pointed look on Peter’s face. “Well, it’s not _me_ you have to worry about,” he says, in case Peter’s somehow unaware that Lydia’s the one who makes heads turn in the hallways at school, not Stiles.

The werewolf just hums. Stiles narrows his eyes but lets the moment pass. “If they get back together,” he adds suddenly, “I’m never going to stop complaining about how he’s stealing all my time with my best friend. And I’m _not_ pretending to like him. I can be petty as fuck. You’ll see.”

“Looking forward to it,” Peter says, smirking. “And don’t think Lydia would buy the charade for a second, even if you tried to pretend. By the way, I was originally thinking you were going to talk about something different at _school._ Now that we have an alliance with the Lesser Hale Pack.”

Stiles barks out a surprised laugh. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

“Simply a suggestion,” Peter replies. “Tossing it into the ring. We can’t keep calling _everyone_ ‘the other pack.’”

“Sure. Well, uh...I mean, I guess? The betas stuck close to us today. They were literally the next table over at lunchtime, which was pretty annoying given you guys’ super hearing or whatever. Anyway, Erica and Boyd also walked us to the car. Nobody wanted to accompany us to your place—big surprise—but that’s why Lydia texted so you’d at least know to expect us.”

“Hm. At least they’re holding up their end of the bargain, then.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, rolling over to press himself up. “I guess we should stick to ours. And maybe figure some of this stuff out. Is that what you’re up to?”

“A little research into Egler,” Peter replies. He hesitates and then closes his laptop. “But since it’s just the two of us for the time being, why don’t we look into your magic instead?”

“I will literally die if anyone asks me to meditate again.”

“Noted, but that’s not what I had in mind.” Peter rises and heads over to the bookshelf, so Stiles sits up straight like a normal person and watches him curiously. The werewolf plucks a book from the top shelf, a nameless leather-bound volume with a matching cord to keep it closed, and holds it out to Stiles.

Who doesn’t think he’s seen it before. Which is weird considering how much time he’s spent rifling through the contents of Peter’s bookshelf. “What’s this?” Stiles asks, unwinding the strap to let the pages fall open. He settles it onto the coffee table to read the title: _Great Greene Magicks: The Modern Guide to Nature-Based Craft._ “Modern,” he reads aloud, looking at the weathered page whose yellowing corners have grown soft with age.

“I’m sure it was at one time,” Peter says diplomatically, taking a seat on the sofa.

Stiles flips through the pages. The text doesn’t seem particularly easy to read, but it’s interspersed with diagrams he assumes he’ll eventually find helpful, most of them detailing leaves, flowers, and root systems. And it has the added benefit of plenty of reassuring words like “basic introduction” and “fundamental steps.”

“This is amazing.” He looks up at Peter. “I thought you didn’t have any other spellbooks for me.”

“This one’s new.”

“What?” Stiles frowns. “Where do you even find books like this? A magical bookshop?”

“We do have one of those in the mall,” Peter remarks offhandedly, and Stiles can’t tell from his straight face whether or not he’s kidding. “But no. I found it where you find everything else these days. Online.”

“Oh. Do you...Is it because I’m pack now?”

“No, it’s been a while since I ordered.” Peter makes a face. “This was the earliest possible delivery option.”

Stiles snorts, idly running his fingers across an illustration of soil layers. “Where did it come from, the moon?”

“Rural Scotland, apparently.”

His grumbling tone makes Stiles fight back a grin. “Well, don’t kill the FedEx guy, Fido,” he quips. Then he pauses and remembers not to be a dick. “Uh, and also thanks. I mean, seriously. I’ve been struggling with all this stuff, as you can probably tell. Anything helps.” He glances down at the book. “Just do me a favor and don’t tell me how much it costs to buy an antique book of magic. Not sure my heart can take it.”

Peter smirks. “It’s well worth the cost. Besides, I thought since you may be stuck with natural magic for a while, you may as well get some use out of it. Learning to do basic spells won’t hurt, even if you decide to specialize in another branch of magic once we’ve severed your connection with the nemeton, and knowing the fundamentals should help you with whatever you start next.”

“Huh. That’s smart.”

“Any thoughts about what you might want out of your magic?”

“As if,” Stiles laughs, and it comes out a little wry. “It’s so hard to choose. It’s like choosing a career. Or a college. Or a major. How am I supposed to know what I want to do for the rest of my life, right at this second?”

Peter cocks his head. “It _is_ like all of those things. In that you can easily change your mind. Much more easily than you think. People make you believe that it’s standard to stick with a single choice for your whole life, but it’s rarely what really happens. You want to switch careers later in life? Go for it. Want to swap out your magic for something new? It’ll take work, but it’s not impossible.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess that’s true.” He stares at Peter suspiciously. “Why do I have the feeling you were always the kind of person to know exactly what you wanted? I mean, _legal_ work. I dare you to find something more fitting for you.”

“That’s what I thought as well,” Peter admits with a smirk. “But then, I’ve always been good at knowing what I wanted.”

“Give me a helping of that,” Stiles sighs, and he turns his focus back to the book. “At least it’s a start, though. Like you said. Maybe learning this stuff can help me narrow it down, decide if it’s something I _don’t_ want to do.”

“That’s enough for now,” Peter agrees, and leans over to look at the book as well. Stiles scoots closer so he can see.

It’s a little weird, both of them hovering so close to read at the same time, but Stiles is glad for the werewolf’s presence. Peter turns out to be surprisingly interested in and knowledgeable of magic, despite having none of his own. Though Stiles grasps little on his own in the first pages of the introduction, Peter hums and nods and pauses to make comments or explain new terms.

As they progress, Stiles gets more comfortable asking questions about phrases or concepts that dwell just beyond his grasp, and Peter either knows the answer or knows where to find it. Another two books find their way onto the coffee table as references, and Peter also brings his laptop from the kitchen to compare a diagram of states of magic with an existing (and clearer) one in his own files.

They spend most of the evening in this way, breaking down the ideas Stiles will need to know. Slowly, however, it begins to dawn on Stiles that all this hypothetical knowledge is leading up to something _practical:_ actual spells with real magic. _His_ magic. It’s an obvious fact, one that’s been sitting in the back of his mind, but the sheer impossibility of it has made it easy to overlook until now.

At least until the time comes to actually do it. Peter retreats upstairs as Stiles reads and rereads a complex passage. When Peter reappears, it’s with a potted peace lily, which sets down on the table.

“Don’t you have any ugly, unwanted plants to sacrifice?”

“Why would I keep ugly plants in my house?”

Stiles sighs. “I dunno. Are you sure ‘bout this?” He stares at the plant’s curling white flower. It’s probably done nothing to deserve whatever’s going to happen, if anything happens at all. “What if I blow it up or something?”

“You’re not going to blow it up,” Peter returns, though he does lean back a little, dubious. “We’ve gone over the spell for boosting growth; it’s just a matter of you knowing how to find your magic and pull it out. You just need to work on funneling it into something you want.”

Stiles nods doubtfully. He grimaces down at the plant. Meditation has been difficult, but it hasn’t been fruitless: he’s much better at finding where his magic sits inside his core now. Or at least he should be, but he’s having a little trouble doing it at the moment. His mind buzzes, and he only manages to think hard about the fact that he _shouldn’t_ be thinking this hard.

“You’re trying to make it grow, not kill it with your eyes,” Peter deadpans.

“You’re not helping.”

He tries again. His attention keeps drifting. Maybe because he hasn’t slept a full night in ages. Outside the window, the song of crickets is a dull, relentless roar.

It’s hard enough to find his magic when he’s on his own, but it’s harder still with Peter sitting there next to him, both of them leaning in anticipation toward the innocent houseplant on the coffee table.

Stiles focuses. Refocuses. The werewolf’s hands rest loosely on his knees. Stiles’s attention gets drawn to the man’s knuckles. A sudden impulse jumps into Stiles’s mind, the idea that he might run his fingers along their ridges, feel the curve of Peter’s bones.

“Not working?” Peter asks, his voice amused.

Stiles starts, feeling suddenly warm. “No, just—got distracted.” He settles back, grimacing. Maybe if he works on meditating? That always seems to help. For a few minutes, he devotes his thoughts to his breathing like he’s accustomed to doing, letting the ebb and flow of it soothe him. But the effort of keeping his mind quiet seems like a hopeless task, even a headache-inducing one.

At last, he throws in the towel. “I guess there’s too much in my head right now,” he says apologetically. “I probably need to practice more.”

Peter doesn’t seem particularly put out about it, though. “The flower lives another day, I suppose,” He says, quirking a smile. “What’s on your mind?”

“Oh. I dunno.” He frowns, and then asks a question that’s been bothering him. “Actually...well, are we really pack, like officially? Just by _wanting_ to be? We didn’t even do anything. We just agreed to it.”

Peter nods slowly, turning to meet Stiles’s eyes. The werewolf is closer than he realized. “Want is a very powerful thing in this world,” he says eventually. “Natural. Water wants to return to the ocean. Magnets want to snap together. Plants want to grow. Sometimes, just by wanting something and reaching for it, you attract it to you. Encourage it to happen. Magic or not.”

Stiles swallows, thinking that it almost sounds like he isn’t just talking about the pack anymore—like he’s talking about something bigger.

He has the strange fear that Peter knows the way Stiles looks at him sometimes, knows how he stares at his hands like some kind of idiot. To be fair, it would be hard for Stiles _not_ to notice how attractive Peter is, not when it’s been obvious since the confusion of day one that he’s hot like burning, but that doesn’t mean Stiles should make this weird. Or especially that he can _afford_ to make it weird. “Sure, like the way I pull my magic in,” he manages weakly.

“Like that,” Peter agrees, and as he leans into the sofa back, houseplant forgotten, Stiles fights off the warmth in his cheeks. _Now really isn’t the time,_ he grumbles internally. Peter continues: “The pack bonds will grow on their own, as long as both parties continue to accept them. But there are certain things that can help them along. Scent-marking, for one—but I don’t think I want to scare you off. The next best thing is just wearing something of mine. Hm. You should take my jacket when you go,” he adds, jerking his chin toward the hook by the door, where his black leather jacket hangs.

Stiles follows his gaze and then looks back at Peter, letting his own amused expression do most of the talking. When Peter only raises his eyebrows, Stiles gestures down at his red flannel shirt and says, “Dude, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen me, but there’s literally _no way_ I could ever pull that off.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s not a matter of style. You just need to wear it.”

“And it helps the pack bonds grow stronger. Wearing your jacket.”

“It does.”

“Okay. Well. Does Lyd need something, too? For…protection, or whatever?”

For a long moment, Peter hesitates. Stiles thinks he might be deciding how to respond, or maybe whether to give a straight answer. At last he admits, “You both smell just enough like me to be pack. The jacket is more...symbolic _._ To help the pack bonds move along. Besides, Lydia’s powers are a little more straightforward to manage now that she knows what she is, and learning to scream at will could be a helpful defense. Your powers don’t seem nearly as easy to pin down, so carrying more of my scent may at least deter an attack if you ever find yourself on your own.”

Stiles blinks, because there’s something strangely affectionate in the way Peter’s looking at him now—not like someone who invaded his home and took over his life, or like someone he’s still considering maybe kicking out if he becomes any more of a headache. Because what he’s saying means that Stiles is someone Peter actually _wants_ around. At least enough to make their pack bond stronger, to defend him.

It makes Stiles’s heart flutter in hope, and he quashes it as quickly as he can, praying Peter can’t hear anything weird in his heartbeat—because Stiles is definitely reading too much into the gesture. Peter’s a werewolf desperate for a pack, wanting whatever magic Stiles has, and he’s probably just pleased that all his guidance may pay off one day if Stiles manages a decent spell.

“Which I won’t,” Stiles manages at last. “Not with the class schedule, and Lydia, and _you._ But...yes. I’ll wear it if you think it’ll help.”

Peter leans back. “Perfect,” he replies, his smile once again becoming the picture of politeness.

.

Sometime in the late hours of the next evening, Stiles jolts awake, bleary-eyed and disoriented, with the sense that he’s suddenly fallen to the ground. Instead, he finds himself draped across Peter’s sofa, with his legs dangling off one side.

_Must have been about to get up and start walking,_ he muses, reflecting on the vague memory of shimmering green. Once he manages to peel himself off the cushion and sit upright, he finds Lydia reading on the floor near the bookshelf.

The world is a dark void outside the front window. Stiles groggily runs a hand through his hair, yawning, as he contemplates the prospect of going back to his empty house. Maybe he’ll stay with Lydia again.

When he turns toward the kitchen, Peter is looking back at him, his face an eerie blue in the laptop’s glow. “You’re awake,” he says pointlessly, and then: “You’re free to stay, you know. It would make my life easier. I wouldn’t have to trek all over to find you if I catch your scent in the woods.”

Embarrassed, Stiles works his mouth open and closed. He’s a little weirded out by the idea of Peter watching him sleep—but mostly, it just sucks that Stiles needs someone to be there as he sleeps at all, an inconvenient chore that disturbs his friends’ (packmates’?) nights. _If not Peter, it would be Lydia,_ Stiles reminds himself, shooting her a tired glance. “Yeah, that’s...I guess you’re right. If it’s okay, I’ll stay over.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t protest when Stiles nods at her. “Alright,” she says finally, getting to her feet.

“You could both stay, if you like,” Peter adds, tilting his head at her. “There’s space to sleep in the office.”

“I should probably be going anyway,” Lydia replies. “I’m headed to Jackson’s for a while.” She shelves her books, though she sneaks one of them into her bag—not that Peter even bothers to protest this sort of thievery anymore. After smoothing the fabric of her skirt, she exchanges a meaningful look with Peter that, if Stiles is reading it right, promises pain if anything happens. “If he won’t go to sleep, read him a bedtime story and tuck him in,” she adds flippantly, pulling on her coat.

Stiles pretends to rub his eye with his middle finger. “Wait,” he says, frowning. “But...the buddy system?”

Lydia's already typing into her phone. “Jackson’s gonna meet me at the bus stop and drive behind me; it’s fine. Bring your notes to finish the calc project during homeroom tomorrow,” she tells Stiles on her way out. “It’ll buy us more research time in the afternoon.”

“Okay. You bet,” Stiles yawns. “Text when you get to him.”

She heads outside with a wave. Stiles watches her go, then flops back onto the cushions.

“I’d prefer if you take the bed tonight,” Peter says. “I’ll take the sofa.”

“What?” Stiles blinks. He sits back up. “No way, dude—I’m not stealing your space. I’m good here.”

“You dozed off three separate times when you were supposed to be meditating,” Peter counters, without looking up from his computer. “You need a full night’s sleep eventually.”

Stiles frowns. It may just be the exhaustion talking, but real sleep in a comfortable bed (and Peter probably has some ultra-posh mattress to boot) sounds pretty tempting about now. It might even help him pass out more easily if he has peace of mind knowing Peter could hear him sleepwalking before he makes it outside.

But still, something about it makes him feel weird.

“I’m not kicking you out,” Stiles says determinedly. “Here’s fine.”

Peter shrugs. “Suit yourself. You know where the shower is, if you need it. I can lend you some clothes to sleep in.”

“Thanks,” Stiles manages, and Peter sweeps out of the room. By the time he’s showered and clothed (and of _course_ Peter has the literal softest, silkiest sleep pants Stiles has ever felt, like a fucking cloud against his skin), the room is dark once more and the werewolf is back at work in the kitchen, hunched over his laptop. But he’s put a pillow on the sofa, and laid out a soft-knit throw blanket.

Stiles usually has a little trouble sleeping in a new place, or at least he used to back when he was younger and sleepovers with random classmates were still a thing. Or back when his parents took him on the occasional summer trip. More recently, the only places he ever sleeps are in his own bed or Lydia’s.

But when he pulls the blanket over him, Stiles finds himself sinking exhaustedly into the cushions and into a deep and instant slumber.

This time, he doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I will never again make promises about updating, holy shit, this chapter took me so long to write. In my defense though, it’s somehow over 20 pages?
> 
> \- So um, does it count as slow burn when one person is just Blind AF™? asking for a friend. 
> 
> \- Oh yeah, Cora is here because I like her a lot and I said so, and because Derek shouldn’t be so lonely. But she’s homeschooled I guess? Or whatever she was doing in canon?
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments, and be good to yourself <3


	8. Into the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then one Saturday, on a rare morning when Stiles is in his own home, his father snoring softly on the living room sofa, he manages his first spell.

The magic comes to them bit by bit, like the fall leaves collecting in the gutters.

But maybe that makes it sound like their magic grows of its own accord, which isn’t the case at all. It’s the focused practice that does it: for Stiles, it’s long evenings spent poring over Peter’s books, meditating in AP Lit, and fixing his gaze on the manicured plants that hem in Lydia’s driveway. Combing through the files on his dad’s computer for intel about the other pack, he finds himself instead quietly reciting the principles of green magic from Peter’s new book. 

As always, Lydia is right there beside him as the days turn into weeks, both of them throwing themselves into their newest project. Slowly, Lydia finds that she can sleep a little easier, that the voices aren’t so loud at night—and that she can adjust her senses to hear them more clearly, at least sometimes, when she’s awake.

Stiles takes a little longer to see a change. But even with few results, even with the continued (but less frequent) sleepwalking, he can feel the magic slowly building up within him, a strange surety he’s never had before. It settles nicely beside the warmth just above his heart, the gentle hum of their burgeoning pack bonds.

And then one Saturday, on a rare morning when Stiles is in his own home, his father snoring softly on the living room sofa, he manages his first spell.

The Stilinskis have always kept a pothos on the kitchen windowsill, a little green zombie whose browned or drooping leaves they’ve revived on multiple occasions. Stiles often stares at it unthinkingly as he washes dishes.

Later, he guesses that it’s just the first time he’s been able to slip, totally by accident, into the right state of mind: the automatic process of the dishes becomes a sort of instinctual meditation, allowing him to delve into the place where his magic rests, absently pondering over it like a puzzle to be solved. He doesn’t even register the new growth, even as he watches it happen. Not until he drifts out of the trance a few moments later and nearly drops the dish he holds in surprise. 

The pothos has cast its marbled green leaves and vines up the side of the window, across the cabinet, and over the sink, where they tangle uselessly around the pile of clean plates. A leafy, vining bush has somehow sprouted on the countertop while Stiles was off daydreaming, and he stares for a long time until he manages to convince himself that it’s really there.

He snaps a photo and sends a text to Peter and Lydia. _there’s no before pic but here’s the after,_ he writes. _i think it’s time for me to embrace my fallback career as a horticulturist._

Peter’s quick to reply: _Impressive for a first try._

Lydia adds, a few minutes later: _Maybe it’s time to upgrade our practice._

_._

It’s early afternoon when they walk into the woods behind Peter’s house, winding their way more and more deeply into the preserve. The sun is high overhead, but the canopy of leaves above them casts a cool blanket of shade over the damp earth. The light chill makes Stiles grateful that he’d grabbed Peter’s jacket from his room before coming. The werewolf had been careful not to draw attention to himself, but Stiles had caught him looking pleased at the sight of it.

Once Lydia deems that they’ve gone far enough, she slows to a stop in a small, sloped clearing. “Alright,” she says to Peter. “How far away can I go before you can’t hear me shout anymore?”

“I’d say about a half-mile,” Peter returns thoughtfully. “For normal human shouting, that is. Likely even further for a banshee, but that’s the point of the test.”

Lydia nods, searching through her bag to pull out what looks like a small black calculator. Stiles leans in for a better look, finding one end covered in grey foam. “Oh. Decibels?” he asks, watching the numbers jump up as he speaks.

“I thought it might come in handy,” she explains. “Especially if we can calculate the pain threshold for werewolves.”

Stiles turns to look speculatively at Peter, who returns a flat glare. “That would help. Although _I’d_ probably need earplugs if we ever get to that point.”

“Or you could just put up with the potential low-grade hearing loss in return for us escaping with our lives.”

“Frankly, I’m not sure it’s worth it,” Peter deadpans. “But perhaps once you find out the highest decibel level of your screams, we can look into the hearing limits of a normal wolf. It would be a starting point, at least.”

“Let’s.” She shoots him an agreeable smile before turning to Stiles. She rifles through her bag and then thrusts a walkie-talkie at him. “Channel five,” she explains. “The phone signals are bound to cut out way out here.” With that, she slips off into a nearby thicket, leaving Stiles alone with Peter. 

“Cool,” Stiles says, turning to him. “What say we steal her car and swing by Starbucks instead of doing this?”

Peter rolls his eyes, dropping gracefully onto a nearby log. Somehow, he manages to give off the impression that he’s _deigning_ to bless Stiles with his presence, like he’s royalty that just happens to slum it in the backwoods of Beacon Hills sometimes. “I thought you wanted to test your magic. Or was that two other street urchins earlier, honking their horn in front of the house until I came out?”

“I do _._ I just think I’d feel significantly more magical if I had, say, 200% more caffeine in my body right now.” 

“I don’t think Lydia would be happy with either of us.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the alpha? The big bad wolf making all the decisions?”

“You must think I’m stupid if I’m under the delusion that Lydia isn’t the alpha,” Peter quips. 

It certainly isn’t true—Stiles can tell based on the quality of their pack bonds, somehow—but something about Peter’s deadpan expression makes him burst out laughing. “It’s good that you’ve accepted it. I didn’t want to say anything to hurt your feelings.”

“I know when to cut my losses.” Peter frowns. “And you’re stalling. Get on with it.”

Stiles huffs, but he obediently turns to look for a good test subject among the plants in the undergrowth.

There are a few flowering bushes clustered around the edge of the clearing, not far from Peter, and so that’s where he starts. He likes to think he’s gotten better at this part, at finding the focus he needs, but even with a few minutes’ work, he can’t get their tiny white buds to sprout further. Instead, he heads over to the tall, yellowed grass surrounding the base of a nearby oak, but he can’t make their dusty brown tufts grow either. 

It’s not hard to _get_ into the right state of mind, but it’s hard to _stay_ there. Stiles can’t seem to stick with the meditative, almost trance-like state that had called the golden pothos into sprouting. It’s even harder because he can feel Peter’s gaze on him, though the werewolf always seems to be looking away whenever Stiles glances over. 

Stiles at last turns to say something, but he stops short, frowning. Something about the arch of Peter’s shoulders catches his attention. Or maybe it’s the dragonfly perched on the sleeve of his shirt. He stares for a moment. The wind rustling the leaves overhead makes dappled sunlight dance across the man’s skin, a wavering kaleidoscope of gold. 

There’s no telling how long Stiles focuses like that—not quite long enough for the werewolf to call him out on it, at any rate—but after some time, something green swirls into Stiles’s view. At some point, he must have stepped closer to Peter, because he’s suddenly right next to him and also aware that he _,_ Stiles, has _pulled_ something up out of the ground and into the open. 

A swath of green has looped around both of Peter’s legs and over part of the fallen log, glossy leaves unfurling to shimmer in the sunlight. The werewolf is staring at Stiles in surprise.

“Shit, sorry—I didn’t mean to—” Stiles begins, stumbling to one knee to loop his fingers into the vines.

“Don’t.” Peter catches his wrist before he can pull them away. He peers down to inspect the leaves for a long moment, and then he looks back at Stiles. “Anyway, if you wanted to tie me down, sweetheart, you only needed to ask,” he remarks with a smirk, and every inch of skin above Stiles’s chest suddenly burns red-hot. Before Stiles can fumble a response, Peter cocks his head and adds, “How much of this can you control?”

Stiles clears his throat, buying himself a moment to get his mind stuttering back to life. He pulls back to inspect his work and settles into a crouch. “Um, some? I mean, I didn’t really make a conscious decision to do that, but now that I _have,_ I feel like…” he trails off, considering. He has a weird sense of the plant itself now, not unlike the feeling he’d had with the pothos. Sort of like to the way that he knows instinctively where his own limbs are without having to look at them. 

“It might be a neat trick,” Peter says, thoughtfully tugging his leg up. The vines loosen at the abuse. “It’s not enough to keep an enemy werewolf trapped, but it might be enough to trip or slow them in a pinch. Especially if you can make them hold a little stronger.”

Desperately trying to keep his mind from sinking into filth, Stiles focuses on the vines themselves and hopes his face hasn’t turned a permanent shade of red. Now that he’s got a better handle on the magic, or at least a better awareness of where it lies within the plant itself, he finds it’s not much harder to strengthen the hold of the vines, making their stems a little woodier, a little tougher to break. Spiny thorns sprout from them, curling into the fabric of Peter’s jeans. 

“Better,” Peter murmurs in approval, leaning forward for a closer look.

“But still something the average werewolf could break out of, no problem,” Stiles guesses. 

Peter proves him right, struggling free in just a second. “It’s a start,” he says in response to Stiles’s frown. “With a little more practice, maybe you can make more vines—and more quickly. Like I said, it won’t take a wolf out of commission, but it might slow them down enough to buy you time if you ever need it.”

“Yeah, enough time for _you_ to come and save my scrawny ass.”

“And I would,” Peter replies simply, and Stiles is suddenly reminded of the werewolf that once took on another pack, and a group of kappas, only to return to him bloody and hurt.

Stiles swallows. “Yeah, I guess.” He studies the now-destroyed plant, which lies snapped and broken after Peter’s escape. 

How long had it taken for Stiles to reach the meditative state he needs to drop into? And how much longer to pull the plant into maturity, and then to twist it to fit his needs? In the middle of an attack, there won’t be time for Stiles to sink into a trance, or to struggle with wielding his magic. 

_There’s no pause button when an enemy werewolf’s coming after you,_ he thinks with a sigh. 

“Ideally, you wouldn’t need you to come to the rescue, though. I mean, that’s kind of the whole point—to figure out how to use this stuff to protect myself more, so you don’t have to keep such a close eye on me if anything goes down.” Peter frowns at him, but Stiles just shakes his head. “Let me try again.”

Sitting cross-legged now, he moves his focus to the neighboring plants. Over the next few minutes, he manages to pull a circle of puffy white mushrooms out of the earth, their umbrellas fanning out bit by interminable bit. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he turns to a batch of fiery orange poppies nearby. Then it’s tall grasses growing from the wedge between the log and the earth, and then a blanket of moss creeping over the dying bark.

Each time, he tries to spark the growth with greater speed, and each time, he finds himself struggling to push ideas from his meditative state into reality.

“It’s not fast enough,” he murmurs eventually, frowning at the trailing vine that’s curling across his knee. “It’s too hard to make it happen—like I’m not strong enough to push that fast.”

Peter’s squinting at the spreading stain of plants that have cropped up between Stiles and the log on which the werewolf still perches. “Not yet, maybe,” he says. “But it might come with practice.”

“Maybe.” Stiles sighs, wishing for the hundredth time that some weird mystic entity had gifted him some kind of actually useful strength. Hell, he’d almost settle for some water powers like Aquaman, even as low as the dude is on the totem pole of superheroes. There’s a reason no one jumps to upgrade their gardening skills in a fighting game. “How’s Lydia?”

“Still fine,” Peter answers promptly, though he pauses. “Screaming again now.”

Stiles grunts, climbing to his feet. “I gotta take a break. Just, I dunno, move around or something.”

Peter straightens and sidles up to him before Stiles can decide whether it’s weird to ask for company. Stiles pulls out the walkie and relays the plan to Lydia, telling her to call when she’s done. Peter follows obligingly as they tramp through leafy ferns and moss-covered stones—or at least, _Stiles_ tramps through them. Peter somehow manages to make no sound at all, to the point that Stiles might have needed to check to be sure the werewolf was still with him, if Peter wasn’t considerate enough to keep within the corners of his vision.

“You know I don’t mind coming to help when you’re in trouble,” Peter tells him out of nowhere. “That _is_ what packs do.”

“I know. But the stronger each of us is individually, the stronger we’ll be together. I mean, if you’re always keeping an eye on me and Lydia, you’re not gonna be completely focused on taking out whatever big bad comes our way. So it’s safer if I can do more. If all of us can.”

Peter hums in agreement, but Stiles isn’t sure he’s really going to let it go. The brush grows more and more dense as they walk, the bronzed fall foliage turning greener and greener as they head further into the woods. 

As they make their way forward, Stiles notices Peter looking warily around. It’s not terribly different from what the werewolf usually does, always monitoring, always scanning. But the expression on his face is strange, and when he finally glances at Stiles, it’s with a considering look.

“What is it?” Stiles asks at last.

The werewolf hesitates, though he continues to follow Stiles forward. “Where are we going?”

Stiles shrugs. “This way. Didn’t really have a direction in mind. I was just tired of sitting. Why?”

Peter grunts, the suspicion not really leaving his face. It’s only after another minute or so of walking that Stiles himself begins to get the sense that his surroundings are more familiar. His feet carry him forward, as though he’s come this way a thousand times before. Maybe he has, he realizes. 

When at last they pull free from a thicket of reedy saplings to find the nemeton towering overhead, Stiles doesn’t even have it in himself to be surprised. 

He doesn’t have it in himself to feel much of anything, really. “I didn’t even know I was leading us here,” he admits to Peter, eyes drawn to the dark whorls of the ancient trunk. His thoughts begin to drift. The meditative state comes easily to him, and he slips deeply into it almost at once.

It’s possible that the werewolf says something back, but his words are lost in the strange silence that suddenly penetrates the green clearing. All Stiles can make out is a dull thrum, as if any sound has come toward him from deep underwater. 

He’s wandered here over and over in his dreams, and this feels like a dream now. There’s a strange sense that the rules of the rest of the world don’t work here. Or that this isn’t part of the world at all. It’s calm. _He’s_ calm, in a way that’s almost the direct opposite of how he normally is. He starts forward, unafraid; the movement makes no sound, like the leaves and grass underfoot aren’t really there. It’s the first time he can remember ever approaching the nemeton of his own volition, without the obligation of the strange pull that draws him here most nights. Instead, the only thing leading him forward is the powerful curiosity humming in his veins.

Gingerly, he steps over the winding roots, around the pool of water that sits at one corner of the clearing, and stares up at the tree. Far overhead, almost out of sight, its leaves rustle. There’s a strange haze that makes it seem as though Stiles is looking at pebbles at the bottom of a stream. 

Now that he’s come to better understand his magic, he can _feel_ the power of this place. What’s more, he can feel his own magic, the way it belongs here. One small drop of power returning to a vast green sea. 

It’s that realization that stuns him. The weird sense that he’s not alone—that he’s part of something greater. Something about it reminds him of the pack bonds, the strange tethers that lead him back to Peter and Lydia. 

But if he truly belongs here, he realizes suddenly, he can use that to his advantage. Whatever the nemeton is doing to him, whatever it wants—it goes both ways. 

_I need a little more,_ he thinks, still staring up at the shimmering leaves. _Just a little, just enough to keep us safe._ Maybe it’s a silly or fanciful thing to imagine, to _believe_ this might happen, except that he can already feel the nemeton comprehending, and then reacting to that dawning comprehension. There’s concern there. And then approval. 

Slowly, he takes a few steps to close the distance to the base of the trunk, feeling that same great and weighty pressure in the air, as though gravity works differently here. He presses a hand to the bark.

Almost at once, he can feel something start to pulse around him, or maybe inside him—something like a heartbeat. It’s familiar. A little bit of strength washes in with the sound of it, trickling like rainwater. _Thank you,_ he thinks, and the nemeton returns some strange sentiment, foreign but not unfathomable.

In a blink, the world rights itself. The green film over the world snaps back. Colors grow less muted. Birdsong warbles in the air, and there’s a hum of nearby insects. 

As Stiles steps away from the tree, he realizes that in the time his strange interaction has taken place, the clearing has filled with vibrant life. Pools of poppies and white lilies wend across the ground farther off, with sprigs of tall grass cresting over the roots. Coppery dragonflies hover low across mounds of clover. The breeze creates ripples in the pond nearby, which has now spread more broadly toward the distant trees.

Peter’s there too, suddenly clutching Stiles’s elbow. His eyes are wide and worried. “What have you done?” he demands.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, feeling the warm glow of magic settling in his chest. _Well, I’m definitely not going to have a hard time finding it anymore._ On a whim, he winds a few vines up the werewolf’s right leg, all the way over his knee, with hardly a thought. They’re the sturdy kind too, stronger than the kind he’d had to work his way up to before, and it takes Peter two tries to pull his leg free.

Peter doesn’t seem nearly as enamored with this new development as Stiles himself is. He frowns down at the growth, his expression strained. “Stiles, _what have you done?_ ”

This time, his voice comes out with a hint of a growl, something closer to anger than he’s directed at Stiles since their first meeting. Stiles blinks, surprised. “I borrowed a little,” he explains. The werewolf’s grip has grown almost painful, so Stiles winds his free hand over to pull Peter’s clenching fist from his elbow. “I realized that it goes both ways.”

“ _What_ goes both ways?”

“The magic. What the nemeton shared with me.”

Peter is clearly making an effort to rein in his response, or maybe just not to reach out for Stiles again. He takes a slow breath and folds his hands over his chest. “Things like this don’t come for free, Stiles.”

“No,” Stiles agrees, watching Peter carefully to see whether he’s really calmed down. “I don’t think they do. But apparently, the magic that’s in the nemeton is also part of _me._ And since it’s been calling me to do—well, _something._ Still unclear or whatever. Anyway, because of that, it’s also okay with giving me a little more. Since I need it. It’s...grateful,” he realizes, finally understanding that last burst of meaning before he’d slammed back to reality.

“Oh, well, I’m sure it’s fine that it just loaned you magic in return for doing something ‘unclear’ at a later unspecified date.”

“It’s not like that,” Stiles protests, exasperated. 

“Then what is it like?”

“Why are you freaking out all of a sudden? I thought you’d be happy.”

“I’m not—” Peter finishes in a scowl, rubbing a hand down his face, but he pauses for a long moment without saying anything at all. As if he isn’t sure what to say. Stiles doesn’t think this is just because he’s standing next to the tree he’s leveling accusations at, though the werewolf’s gaze does flit suspiciously toward the mammoth trunk. 

_No_ , Stiles realizes, _it’s something else. He’s not angry._ “You’re worried. This is, like…” he fumbles for the right word but falls a little short. “An alpha thing?” he guesses instead. “You don’t like not knowing what’s going on with your betas’ shit?”

“No, I really don’t,” Peter agrees at once, looking almost relieved that he doesn’t have to spell it out himself. 

“Oh. Well, look, it’s not a big deal. It’s hard to get a clear picture, but I can tell the nemeton doesn’t want me to, like, sacrifice newborns under a full moon. It’s definitely just—like, it’s more worried about me than anything else, like it can tell I’m not asking for help on a whim. I think it knows I’m in danger, and I need it. But also…” he pauses. “I think _the nemeton_ needs my help with something, something it can’t do alone. That’s why it’s calling me. But that part feels so vague that I can’t really make it out.”

Peter stares for a long time. “Alright,” he grunts, and at the very least Stiles takes it as a win that he sounds a little less mad. “If that’s the case, how can you be sure it isn’t simply _compelling_ you to do what it wants?”

“It’s not…” Stiles scowls, feeling his own anger building at the meaningless question. “I don’t know. How would I possibly know that for sure? How would I know _you_ aren’t compelling me to do what you want?”

“Because things would look very different,” Peter says, his expression flitting between a smirk and a frown.

Stiles has fallen too far into his rant to get annoyed with the interruption. “I wouldn’t know, because I don’t know the first thing about magic that would allow me to figure out if someone’s like, hypnotizing me or something. You could have some kind of psychic mind control spell thing if you wanted, because I’m too new at this to know about that kind of thing. But I trust you anyway. Because to the best of my knowledge, you’re not trying to hurt me. That’s all I can do, Peter. I can only work with what I have. And it feels the same with the nemeton. It’s not _compelling_ me _,_ I’m just agreeing. It’s reaching out to me in self-preservation, and I’m reaching back in self-preservation. We’re going to help each other. That’s all.”

Peter is still frowning, his jaw clenched so hard Stiles thinks he might be grinding his teeth. 

“ _What_ is the big deal?” Stiles demands, exasperated.

Peter stares at him for a long minute before peering mulishly around the clearing. “I don’t like the idea of you letting anyone—any _thing_ —have power over you.”

“I’m not, it’s…” Stiles considers this for a moment, trying to put it into words Peter might understand. “It feels a little like the pack bonds, okay? The nemeton doesn’t have any more influence over me than you do. Well, maybe some. It _does_ do the whole sleepwalking thing.”

Peter looks dubiously up at the branches, and Stiles follows his gaze. Now, the leaves look normal, or as normal as they can look on a supersized tree. 

“You don’t have to trust the nemeton,” Stiles says finally. “But can you just try to trust _me?_ ” 

The werewolf heaves a wounded sigh—as if this is actually a low blow—but the question at last earns a reluctant nod. “Fine,” he replies, a little sullen. 

He moves away from the tree, leveling Stiles with a rather pointed gaze. Stiles, remembering the first time he’d struggled to back away from the tree, now reluctantly crosses its roots and steps into the undergrowth beyond.

The second they’ve made it out of the clearing, Lydia’s voice bursts through the walkie-talkie. “Where _are_ you? If you’ve ditched me alone in the woods, you’re going to regret it,” she grumbles.

.

Peter doesn’t really warm up to Stiles again until much later that night. Or maybe Stiles only imagines that part.

Sometime after nightfall, Lydia sped off in her car, still complaining (hoarsely) about them “ignoring” her walkie calls, though Stiles insists it’s due to some effect of the nemeton’s power that they hadn’t heard her at first. Of course, she isn’t really holding a grudge—certainly nothing big enough to snub the fancy stuff Peter makes for dinner.

Stiles stays behind. He’s been sleeping at Peter’s for the last few nights, what with his dad back on shift this week and Lydia’s parents in town long enough to spend a few nights at home. His dad still thinks he’s just bunking at Lydia’s, obviously, but Stiles’ things have been slowly migrating over to Peter’s place. Just the essentials, though: a toothbrush, some extra ADHD meds, deodorant, spare clothes. Stiles has been trying not to think about it too hard. 

And Peter’s taken it all in stride, not so much as doing a double-take when Stiles’s favorite pillow becomes a fixture on his sofa, or when Stiles sweeps out of the bathroom in his Captain America pajamas. It’s been weirdly easy between them, the way Peter slots Stiles into his home life as though he’s always been there. Lydia picks him up bright and early for school, letting Peter do whatever it is that Peter does during the day, and then they return together in the afternoons to bend their heads over their research, Peter included.

Today, though, Peter’s still distracted and distant from earlier. (Lydia had taken the news of the nemeton’s gift in stride, accepting it as the latest weirdness in their increasingly weirdening lives. Which made Stiles feel pretty validated about his decision to ask for a little extra boost, because Lydia’s a really good judge of most stuff. He doesn’t exactly want to argue with Peter about it anymore, but he also doesn’t want to tiptoe around him either.) 

Peter’s again seated at the kitchen table with his laptop—in theory, researching. But in practice, Stiles catches a _lot_ of wayward glances as he cleans the mess from tonight’s meal (fucking filet mignon with truffle oil mushroom risotto _,_ because Peter is a wolf of expensive tastes).

It takes him only a few minutes to have had enough. “I’m not going to apologize,” Stiles tells him gruffly, fighting back a yawn as he stacks plates in the cabinet. He’s mentally prepared himself for an argument, if it comes to that, but he hopes it won’t: there’s an Econ test in the morning he’d like to be at least somewhat well-rested for.

“I wasn’t asking,” Peter returns coolly. “I was going to tell you to take the bed this time. I’m going to be up late making some calls. It’s stupid for you to be on the couch.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, deflating. He pauses, then throws the towel into the sink. “Calls? It’s almost midnight.”

“That’s the best time to make these kinds of calls,” Peter replies, and his grin is wolfish.

Stiles cracks a smile at his playful tone. “Are you going to answer if I ask you who and why?” 

“Probably not. But I may answer if you ask me in a day or so.”

“Huh. Fair enough.” Stiles hesitates. “Then...I dunno. I guess so? Yeah, sure. So I get to check out your bedroom. For the first time ever.” Peter raises an eyebrow, and Stiles snorts. “Yeah, it was worth a shot. You and your werewolf nose.”

“You didn’t cross the threshold, at least.”

“I do have _some_ boundaries,” Stiles tells him haughtily. “Besides, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t sleeping in a coffin or something.”

“That’s a different kind of monster.”

“Hm.” Stiles stares at Peter long enough for the werewolf to huff in displeasure, looking up from his computer screen. “You’re not a monster, you know.”

“Just an asshole.”

“Hm. Well.” He yawns. “Your heart’s not in it.”

Peter snorts. “You are certainly the only person who has ever thought so.”

“But am I not the most _important_ person who has ever thought so?” Stiles asks. It’s a little nonsensical. It’s definitely time for bed. “Anyway, you’re really sure? About the bed, I mean.”

“Stiles, if you don’t sleep in the bed at this point, I’m going to carry you up there and push you into it.”

The image of Peter Hale pushing him into bed makes Stiles’s cheeks heat up, which makes it even harder to say what he means to say. “Uh, well look. You have, um—I mean, all you rich people, with your ginormous cars and houses and shit, and...you have a really big bed. Stupidly big, one could even say. So unless you, like, completely starfish or something, we could definitely both fit. So you don’t have to take the couch, I mean. I know you’re going to bed late, and I guess you could get into bed tomorrow morning after I get up for school if you’re working that long, but it’s not like—”

“Stiles,” Peter cuts him off, looking mildly amused. “Alright. Go to sleep.”

“Night,” Stiles says, before he can make more of a fool out of himself. He walks off to shower and change, and then he creeps into the hall toward the stairs. 

The second story of the house has never been explicitly off-limits, but Stiles has only poked around it for a moment a couple times (knowing full well that Peter could probably hear him snooping all the while, though the wolf has never called him out). There are two bedrooms up here, though one has been converted into a cushy home office, with a sleek hardwood desk and a sofa by the window and a series of books and drawers. That Peter never never seems to use it, Stiles guesses, has more to do with the fact that Stiles and Lydia are almost constant company now, rather than anything wrong with the room itself. 

The second bedroom is the master bedroom, which Stiles slips into now. It’s expansive, with a roof that slants overhead and a skylight that opens up to inky darkness and rattling branches above. A little pot of ivy hangs on the wall beside it, and the rescued peace lily is back in its home in the corner. Though there are other little pieces of furniture—a nightstand and lamp, a bookshelf, a padded chair against the wall near the closet door—most of the room is given to the bed. 

Stiles sinks into its soft grey sheets (and of _course_ they’re like three hundred thousand thread count), pulling a woolen blanket up to his chin against the light autumn chill. It should be weird, probably, sleeping in Peter’s bed. But Stiles feels strangely comfortable. Safe. Especially with the thought that Peter himself is sitting at the table downstairs, just a shout away.

(It also _smells_ like Peter, which is something he probably wouldn’t normally have noticed, except that werewolf skills are at the forefront of his mind practically at all times these days.)

Besides that, he tells himself, he’s exhausted—so he has every right to fall asleep almost right away if he wants to. 

And so he does.

.

Much later, in the deepest part of the night, Stiles wakes to a gentle tug on his arm. He returns to consciousness gradually, as if from coming up for air from a long way down, and finds himself standing just inside Peter’s front door. It’s dark, but there’s a figure standing just in front of him, a warmth against his palm.

“Peter?” Stiles’ voice sounds small, his thoughts muddied and disoriented as his heart thuds to life.

“Shh, it’s alright, sweetheart. I’m sorry—you can’t see.” Without letting go of Stiles’s hand, the figure steps over to flick on the lightswitch, and Stiles blinks as the nearby lamp comes on. It’s Peter standing in front of him. His face is a mask, though his gaze flicks up and down as if to be sure Stiles is alright. “You were starting to walk out of the house. I wasn’t sure whether or not to wake you. I thought I might be able to get you back to bed, but it obviously didn’t work this time.”

Stiles nods, struggling to calm his breathing. The panic subsides slowly. It’s not the dream that scared him, not anymore. Especially now that he’s effectively “met” the nemeton in person. But something about being so suddenly snapped out of it, and into darkness, has jarred him in a way he can’t explain.

Peter studies him in concern. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just...didn’t know where I was. Fuck. I’m fine. Um, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” He can see from here that the kitchen is now completely dark, and Peter is wearing those soft knit pants he likes to sleep in. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Sorry.”

Gently, Peter squeezes his hand and releases it. “There’s nothing to apologize for. Do you need anything? Do you want to come back to bed?”

Stiles suddenly realizes he and Peter have been sleeping in the same bed, unbeknownst to him—because after all, half the benefit of going to bed first is that they _wouldn’t_ have to go through the awkwardness of maneuvering around each other, deciding when to switch off the light, listening to each other breathe in the dark. But it doesn’t matter now. It’s late, and he’s tired, and the nemeton is still tugging gently at his chest in a way that feels oddly comforting, like a heartbeat pressed against his skin. “No, I’m fine,” he says at last. “Let’s—go back to bed.”

They climb back up the stairs and into the dark room, where Stiles waits for Peter to chastise him about taking magic from the nemeton again. Or to tease him in that way he seems to enjoy. But Peter does neither of those things. He wordlessly flicks the light off once Stiles is comfortable and then settles into his pillows. 

Stiles fidgets a little—he can’t help it, really. And because he _knows_ he’ll fidget, it makes him anxious, and so he fidgets even more. Even so, Peter doesn’t call him on it, though Stiles is pretty sure the werewolf is still awake, _must_ be awake. It takes a long few moments of Stiles lying stiffly in bed, but eventually he relaxes and grows more comfortable. His keen awareness of Peter’s presence is in the vague tilt of the mattress at his side, the slightest sound of breathing, the promise of warmth if Stiles only reaches out to him. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel awkward at all.

“Peter?” Stiles says sleepily, just before he drifts off.

“Stiles,” Peter replies, in a voice that offers no hint of tiredness. There’s that same touch of amusement in his tone, but Stiles is growing not to mind it. Not now that he can hear no condescension there, only warmth and maybe even fondness. 

_It’s because we’re pack now,_ Stiles thinks. _Because we belong together._

“Thank you. Really.” The words come out before he can really process them. There’s nothing Stiles can pin down as the sole reason for his gratitude, just a general you’re-doing-it-for-me kind of deal, and he hopes Peter gets the picture. He doesn’t have it in him to explain right now.

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Peter returns. Stiles can almost hear the smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- So yeah, somehow all Stiles does in this story is fall asleep??
> 
> \- I didn’t *explicitly* include imagery about Lydia screaming into a decibel meter like a lunatic (before jotting down very scientific notes in her notebook). But I hope you enjoy the idea. I like to imagine it’s fantastic stress relief from being surrounded by dumbasses all the time ;)


	9. Werewolfy Blustering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is now pretty much besties with a banshee, a werewolf, and a sentient tree, which you’d think would revolutionize his life in just about every way. 
> 
> Unfortunately, you’d think wrong.

When Stiles wakes next, it’s to a cacophony of birdsong.

Being so close to the preserve, he guesses, is enough to draw in all the weird, wild birds—the kinds he never hears out in the suburbs. When their raucous calls become too much to bear, he finally rolls out of bed, stretching in the grey morning light. He checks his phone to find that it’s getting late. Lydia will be here soon to pick him up.

Peter’s side of the bed is empty, and Stiles is surprised to find that the smell of bacon wafts up from the kitchen. He shimmies out of bed to pee, brush his teeth, and then change into his spare clothes. When he enters the kitchen a few minutes later, running his fingers through his hair to make it look slightly less ridiculous, he can’t help but frown. Though cooked dinners have become more frequent in the short time Stiles has been staying here, Peter’s never gone to the trouble of making breakfast. “What’s this for?” he asks, blinking at the bacon and eggs Peter’s plating.

“Bacon’s going to expire in three days, and I don’t trust either of you to make it without burning the place down,” Peter replies matter-of-factly, glancing at Stiles’s messy hair as he hands over a plate.

Stiles makes a face, pats uselessly at his head, and sits down. “Why don’t you just cook it later, then? Not that I’m complaining,” he adds, swiping the proffered plate before Peter can change his mind and take it back.

Peter doesn’t answer right away. He sweeps the last of the eggs from the hot pan and onto a second plate. Then, slowly, he turns and folds his hands over his chest. “I’m going to be out of pocket for a few days,” he says at last.

“Ou’ o’ pocket?” Stiles parrots around a mouthful of food. He swallows. “Does it have anything to do with the calls you made last night?”

“It does,” Peter agrees, drumming his fingers on his arm. “No news just yet, though.”

Stiles studies him. “Are you doing something dangerous? You said you’d tell me if you were.”

“I don’t recall saying that at all.”

“Alright, technically you were supposed to text me where you’re going to be. But you’re supposed to do it whenever you’re headed into potential trouble _._ So, we could just skip that step and say you’re supposed to tell me when you’re doing something dangerous,” Stiles concludes.

Peter huffs out a laugh. “Nothing like that. But with any luck, I’ll have a few answers about that rogue pack when I return.”

“Oh. Nice. Finally.” Stiles stabs at his bacon. “You _would_ tell me if you thought it was going to be dangerous, right?”

“Yes, Mother,” Peter tells him dutifully. “This,” he adds, flicking a finger toward Stiles, “is not normal beta behavior, by the way.”

“Then normal betas are dumb. When will you be back? You better text me.”

“A few days, and I will,” the werewolf says, smiling. “If only because I’m afraid you two might starve if you’re left to fend for yourselves for too long.”

“We’re like feral cats,” Stiles agrees solemnly. “Once you start feeding us, you can’t just force us back into the wild. We’ve forgotten how to forage for food. Who knows if Lydia even still keeps her credit card handy.”

Outside, Lydia honks her horn. It’s shrill in the quiet of the early morning. Stiles shoves the rest of his food into his mouth as fast as he can—ignoring Peter’s exasperated eyeroll—and heads into the den to dump his textbooks into his backpack.

When he turns, Peter’s standing at the front door with the black jacket in hand. He holds it out to Stiles. “Wear it,” he orders. Stiles doesn’t think he really _gets_ werewolves. Not yet. But he likes the way Peter’s face goes all soft when Stiles pulls the jacket on over his shoulders.

Lydia honks again. Peter doesn’t move. “We...done here?” Stiles asks curiously. “What else you got for me, big guy?”

The wolf rolls his eyes again, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. Stiles only catches his hesitation because he knows Peter better now, and he’s surprised when Peter pulls out a key. He hands it to Stiles, who stares for a long moment until realization dawns.

“Is this the key _to your place?_ The place I’m standing in right now? This super secret werewolf lair? Am I actually one of the lucky chosen? The cream of the crop? And I don’t even have to swipe your key to make my own copy?” He’s going to make a game out of seeing how many times he can get Peter to roll his eyes in a ten-minute period.

“I’m going to regret this,” Peter mutters, just loud enough for Stiles to hear. Then: “Sleep at Lydia’s while I’m gone. Or at home, if your father is around. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

“Roger that. I’d say the same to you, but since you’ve decided this is gonna be a solo mission…” he squints suspiciously. “No talking you out of that?”

“Go to school, Stiles,” Peter replies in exasperation.

Stiles slings his backpack over one shoulder and heads to the door. “One day,” he promises, throwing it open. “One day, you’re gonna stop doing dumb solo stuff and take me and Lydia with you to help.”

He doesn’t really know what he’s saying, or what “help” would entail, or whether he and Lydia even have the capacity to actually be help _ful_ to someone like Peter Hale. But he’s suddenly certain that this is how things will go down in the future. Something about it seems almost inevitable.

Peter stares at his serious expression. Then he steps forward, right the fuck into Stiles’s personal space, and puts a hand on his chest just under his collarbone. “I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” Peter replies solemnly, and he’s so close that Stiles can feel him exhale, like the weight of those words are drifting against his skin.

But before Stiles can do much more than blink in surprise, even before he can really register the way his nearness makes warmth bloom over his skin, warmth that has nothing to do with the man’s firm touch, Peter pushes Stiles over the threshold. Stiles stumbles backward, gaping at the smirk settling over Peter’s face. “But until then…” the werewolf adds cheerfully, and he shuts the door in his face.

Stiles stares blankly at the space Peter just vacated for another minute, until Lydia’s insistent honking snaps him back to attention.

“Stop feeding the troll and get in the car!” she shouts.

.

Stiles is now pretty much besties with a banshee, a werewolf, and a sentient tree, which you’d think would revolutionize his life in just about every way.

Unfortunately, you’d think wrong. It doesn’t excuse him from boring, normal stuff like SAT prep or calculus homework. Or the backlog of boring, normal essays people have requested on _The Scarlet Letter_ by Friday, and one on _Macbeth_ for a particularly weepy junior by Tuesday (which means Stiles is going to have to dig through his papers from last year to write something coherent but not plagiarized from his old stuff).

So he gets back into the swing of his boring, normal life to manage the careful balancing act. He and Lydia have already read the chapters they’re currently discussing in both Econ and History, so he spends most of those classes drafting a few of the essay outlines. And there’s no point in going to Peter’s in the middle of the day, not when the werewolf himself isn’t around, so he spends both his independent study and lunch periods bent over his writing as well.

On Thursday, he’d planned to spend most of AP Lit doing the rest of his calculus homework, but he arrives to find the desks pushed together for group work. This by itself is enough to throw him into a foul mood, just at the thought of the unexpected waste of time alone. ( _This definitely wasn’t on the syllabus, and she didn’t even update the class website,_ Stiles fumes.) But it’s even worse than he could have expected: Mrs. Hayes has assigned him and Lydia to separate groups, probably out of pure spite.

“Geez, didn’t think I was _that_ bad,” Scott mutters as Stiles sinks into his designated seat with a scowl. He and Issac both meet his gaze balefully.

Stiles sighs. Lydia is across the room, scowling so ferociously that Greenberg is cowering backward in his chair. Next to him is Popular Girl™ Rebecca Harper, who even now is making giggling, sad eyes at her best friend across the room. So he guesses it _could_ have been worse. “It’s not you, dude—just thought I was gonna have more time to get shit done. Group work is kind of a waste of time.”

Isaac scoffs, flipping through the handouts they’ve been given. “Sure, except when it’s you and the _other_ class workaholic.”

“It’s a waste of time unless you’re with the right people,” Stiles amends, but he resolves himself to being at least slightly less antagonistic. That’s usually Lydia’s purview, and there’s no need for him to cover it for her just because he’s being forced into a solo babysitting gig. “Anyway, what’ve we got?”

From Mrs. Hayes’s faltering explanations (given in fits and starts over the clamor of student conversation) and from the instructions on the papers themselves, Stiles realizes they’re meant to be analyzing a series of timed essays. And as it turns out, Scott and Isaac aren’t _totally_ useless. Just...maybe Honors level instead of AP. He’d be surprised they’d gotten into AP Lit at all, except that Beacon Hills High tends to pretend it’s a private school by pushing anyone with enough brain cells into the highest-level classes, just for the sake of rounding out the stats they boast to parents of prospective students.

Over the course of the period, though, Stiles finds himself warming to the werewolves a little more—probably only because their discussions get kind of interesting.

And anyway, Stiles actually kind of likes _The Crucible._ Something about the irredeemable insanity of it all, plus the more-relevant-than-ever topic of witchcraft, really appeals to him. Isaac and Scott are more than happy to let him guide the analysis, with occasional contributions and debate, which allows them to finish in a little over half the time.

From then on, whenever Hayes isn’t looking, they branch away from the play and delve into horror movie discussions, which is something Stiles can never get Lydia properly hyped about. The three of them are pretty divided on found-footage horror, Stiles finds, but mostly on board with the recent surge of horror movie remakes. _It’s funny,_ Stiles thinks. _In another life, maybe we would have been friends. If there were like, 50% less werewolfy blustering._

It’s the werewolfy blustering that gets him, though. He’s only marginally more diplomatic than Lydia (which says very little at all), meaning he can’t bring himself to ignore the way their eyes linger a little haughtily on Peter’s jacket, the way their noses crinkle when Stiles leans in. Like they’re reminding him at every opportunity that they think something’s off about him.

“Look, it’s just for protection,” he snarks at last, exasperated. “And you can’t keep trying to tell me Peter’s gonna maul us or steal our souls or something.”

“No, we get that,” Isaac says quickly, “It’s just, uh. Unusual.” He swallows whatever else he was going to say and exchanges a meaningful glance with Scott. Something about the solemnity of it makes Stiles abruptly realize that this coming discussion, whatever it may be, is premeditated. Which only frustrates him more for some reason.

“Yeah, so...look,” Scott begins, sighing. “The Hales have all been at each other’s throats for ages now, before any of us were ever turned. And we’ve heard a lot of shit about Peter. I don’t know how much he’s told you about himself, but what _we’ve_ heard hasn’t exactly been all good stuff.” Stiles opens his mouth, ready to interrupt, so Scott quickly continues: “But what I—what we _—_ mean to say is that Peter’s probably got a lot to say about Derek and Cora, too, right? It probably goes both ways. And we don’t actually _know_ Peter that much, we just know what we’ve heard. And you and Lydia are like, smart. So...”

“Smart enough not to jump on board with a total psychopath, anyway. Or at least we assume.”

“Right.”

“So no one’s trying to convince you _not_ to be in his pack anymore,” Isaac finishes. “If that’s what has to happen.”

“Plus, if he’s making sure you guys carry his scent or whatever, and he’s trying to protect you both...well, he can’t be all bad. That’s what an alpha’s supposed to do.”

“Yeah—I know there’s this whole ‘official truce’ we have going on between both packs while those other wolves are around. But the thing is, the Hales probably aren’t going to forgive each other and move on anytime soon. Maybe ever. Who knows. But the rest of us? We’re stuck in the same school. Same _classes._ At least for the rest of the year. It seems stupid for us to be carrying old grudges with us.”

“Especially when they aren’t even _our_ grudges,” Scott adds.

“So, we were thinking—us and Erica and Boyd, anyway—that it would be good to have, like, an extra truce between betas. Just not to pick fights, as much as possible. So we don’t get dragged into the whole Hale mess any more than we have to. No more saying shit about each others’ alphas or stuff like that.”

When it becomes obvious that’s all they have to say, and that they’re only waiting for his response, Stiles sits back in his seat, mind whirring. “Gee, how magnanimous of you,” he snipes. But as far as gestures go, it isn’t really a bad one. Actually, it’s pretty strategic.

He gazes across the room to make eye contact with Lydia, who pulls an annoyed grimace and tilts her head at her partners, as if to say _I don’t deserve this treatment_. Stiles quirks a smile and decides she’ll be fine with it.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” he says. “No hard feelings.”

“Great,” Scott tells him, “‘cause I just overheard Mrs. Hayes saying this group work extends to Friday. So, you know. It’d be kinda awkward now if you still hated us.”

Stiles groans, but it’s mostly for show at this point. Plus, by the end of the period, he’s accepted Scott’s invite to play Call of Duty at his house (or “on neutral territory, for real,” as Scott puts it).

“The Lesser Hales aren’t _terrible_ ,” Stiles murmurs to Lydia as they gather their things after class, once he’s pretty sure the werewolves are out of earshot. He brings her up to speed—and as he’d guessed, she doesn’t really care one way or another. Especially since Jackson doesn’t seem to be involved in the mini-truce. Beside Stiles, she stares at the betas’ retreating backs as they slink down the hall.

“No, I guess not,” she allows. “But they aren’t really _pack,_ are they?”

“No, they aren’t,” Stiles agrees, somehow knowing exactly what she means. The Lesser Hales are friendly—if not exactly friends—but what he feels for them is different from what he feels for Peter and Lydia.

.

Either way, the truce holds.

True to their word, he and Scott meet to squabble over Call of Duty that weekend. Isaac eventually makes it over to the McCalls’ as well, only to cringe his way through basically all of _The Conjuring._ They talk superheroes, reality television, school gossip. They dance around but never cross the boundary between their initial burst of acquaintanceship and something more, as if all of them are keenly aware that some parts of themselves can never be shared, that some things are for pack alone. It’s just as well: Stiles has never had any real friends besides Lydia, and he’s not even sure how he’d begin to bring a whole group of them up to speed on his weirdness.

But their sudden bout of diplomacy is also strategic, a good way of giving off the appearance that they _are_ all pack to any strange wolf who might see or smell them. It distracts Stiles from the fact that Jackson is unfortunately part of that larger pack now, or that the other two Hales don’t particularly care for Stiles and Lydia at all.

Even better, it distracts Stiles from Peter’s absence.

Stiles has asked Peter to text him updates, which seemed fine at the time. But with the effects of time and distance, he worries it was kind of a weird demand. When the first two days passed without any messages from Peter, nothing felt off about it. They normally only text for logistical stuff: When will Peter be home? Will Stiles actually please return that one bestiary he keeps promising he’ll bring back? Can Peter figure out how to make curly fries for them, like it’s even that hard? (The response being a speedy _Absolutely not, you heathen._ )

But as the next day passes, and the next, Stiles finds himself growing antsy simply by virtue of knowing Peter’s gone somewhere without backup. He finds himself remembering how the wolf looked when he’d come out of the dark after the kappas, covered in blood and brimming with wary fatigue.

“I mean, he _said_ he would text,” he tells Lydia over lunch. Though the Lesser Hales know of Peter’s trip, Lydia and Stiles don’t much want to talk it over with them, so they’re outside on the bleachers instead of in the cafeteria—but still within sight of their allies. From here, Stiles can see the other pack sprawling in the uppermost corner of the stands: Isaac laughs and Erica’s gold ringlets flip as she tries to toss grapes into the air and catch them with her mouth. “He just didn’t say _when_ he would do it.”

Lydia’s staring at them too. Her worry is obvious in the slant of her frown. “Then one of us should check in. Otherwise, how are we supposed to know if something goes wrong?” She pauses. “You, obviously.”

“Why ‘obviously?’”

For a moment, it looks like she’s deliberating on what to say. What she ends up with is, “Because you’re the secretary of this friendship. Maybe the whole pack.”

“Why, because I’m adorable and I make great coffee?”

“Because you hate talking to other people less than I do. Definitely less than Peter does.”

“What, so I get punished for your personal preferences?”

“ _And_ because you’re the one who told him to text,” she replies imperiously. “And because you don’t consider it punishment.”

She isn’t wrong about that. Stiles is basically looking for an excuse to reach out to Peter, if he’s being honest. Even so, he can’t figure out what he should say without seeming like (A) an overbearing mother or (B) a foolish child. Or worse, (C) an infatuated idiot. He spends the last two periods of the day distracted over it.

Luckily, Peter takes the decision away from him before he can grow too anxious. After school, while Lydia’s in the midst of another Spanish club meeting, his phone buzzes. _I’m still alive in case you’re interested,_ it reads.

It’s lame to reply straight away, right? Even so, Stiles’s fingers fly over the screen. _good because lyd and i just realized we don’t know ur funeral preferences_

_What makes you think you’d be the ones to arrange my funeral?_

_oh so youd rather have derek and cora do it_

_Touché._

_where are you?_

There’s a long pause. Stiles watches the leaves of the bushes rattling in the wind outside the window, a low hum over the sounds of the bilingual debate taking place by the chalkboard. He thinks maybe Peter isn’t actually going to answer.

When his phone buzzes again, it’s with a random location—a dropped pin on the map rather than time-based location sharing. A red mark on a field of green. Stiles scrolls out, and the patterns of pixelated shading and light resolve themselves into hills and mountains. The pin is in the middle of nowhere. _Umatilla National Forest,_ reads a nearby label.

Stiles blinks down at it. _whats in oregon?_ he texts.

_Answers, I hope._

_thats not vague at all_

_Mountains, more specifically._ Before Stiles can decipher the level of snark in the tone, Peter follows up with an image: a brown mountain with patches of trees under a gloomy sky.

The landscape looks beautiful. Remote. Maybe even a little lonely _,_ Stiles thinks, but he doesn’t say so. _and the other pack?_

 _We’ll see,_ Peter replies. _I’ll send an update when I move._

 _you better,_ Stiles texts, and that’s the end of that.

Or it should be. Except that the floodgates seem to have opened. With their communication restored, Peter’s messages come a little more often. They’re sporadic still, happening at all hours of the day and night. Always new locations, red pins nestled in green hills.

Peter never really explains what he’s up to, of course. His responses are carefully nebulous, as if he’s getting off on making Stiles guess where he’s headed next (and knowing him, he probably is). But Stiles tracks Peter through his updates anyway, idly researching the surrounding area both out of curiosity and to make conversation.

 _you could stop at the oregon trail museum,_ Stiles informs Peter when his pins wander a little closer to Baker City. _i couldn’t go there bc i’d have too many flashbacks to my peeps dying of dysentery. i never did beat that game._

_The obvious solution was to stop fording deep rivers._

_did you play it??  
_ _you don’t even like video games  
_ _you said halo was dumb  
_ _HALO_

_I liked it more than I liked computer class._

_fair  
_ _you beat it didn’t you_

_Yes? I don’t remember it being very difficult._

_wow for a second there i almost admired u but that tone of voice really killed it for me  
_ _dyk it was meant as an educational game?_

_I think that was obvious given the premise._

_yea but i guess i dont understand what the point was  
_ _don’t ever do anything at a “grueling” pace?_

_Misfortune is endless so don’t try?_

_point  
_ _thats a good thing to teach small kids i think  
_ _that’s probably the only thing i learned  
_ _actually i still dont even know what dysentery is_

A day later, when Peter’s location hikes a tiny bit north, Stiles does more research. The werewolf is pretty far from the Washington border still, but Stiles has a new suggestion regardless.

_there’s a nuclear reactor tour you should check out in richland  
_ _the only thing cooler than being a werewolf is being a werewolf with superpowers_

_One could argue that being a werewolf means having superpowers._

_no, i mean real superpowers  
_ _like come back when you can make lightning with your mind or something_

To his knowledge, Peter never ventures out to any of these random places, but the ideas seem to amuse him, if nothing else. And it gives Stiles an excuse to stay in touch, to hover near his phone.

Every once in a while, Peter sends an image along with his new pin: a winding dirt road, as seen through the windshield of his rental. Trail signs in the woods. A dusty booth selling fruit on a roadside. A menu under the glowing lights of a tiny bar and grill.

Despite the slow pace of their conversations. Peter’s good at responding most of the time, though he refuses to dish out any serious info about what he’s up to until they’re face to face again. _I’d rather be sure nothing gets intercepted,_ he remarks offhandedly, which is such an outlandish statement that Stiles stares at the screen of his phone for a full minute. He’s not sure when he started living in a world where he has to be wary of spies and information theft, but the sentence seems so practical he’s not sure how he didn’t consider it himself.

At times, though, Peter goes for long stretches without responding to messages. Every now and then, it’s enough to make Stiles worry—though he certainly never says as much to the werewolf.

Instead, he snaps and sends a picture of part of today’s meal, a ham and cheese Lunchable he grabbed at the nearby gas station.

_who’s gonna make sure we eat a vegetable every day u asshole  
_ _i haven’t had anything green in a week._

The reply comes in the dead of night, and Stiles only sees it several hours later, after the rush to school has safely gotten him to first period calculus before the bell.

_I don’t even know where to start with that._

It’s under a pair of other notifications, though, because Stiles’s phone is suddenly getting more mileage than it has in years. Scott and Isaac seem to have adopted him into their bromance somehow, roping him into a group chat whose discussion mostly revolves around the creation of an accidentally-post-Halloween horror movie list. Bemused, Stiles offers more feedback than he intends, rather than ignoring the conversation like he normally would, and is invited to their next movie screening.

“So, what’s the daily briefing?” Lydia demands, running absent fingers through her hair with her free hand as she drives them to school.

“Peter’s still moving northeast, closer to Idaho now. Sent a picture of a bald eagle not far from where he’s camping out. He says he’d get salads delivered here if he thought we’d eat them. Scott and Isaac won’t let me veto _mother!_ because they’re into J-Law, but that’s gonna be their loss.” Lydia is smiling at him. “What?” he asks suspiciously.

“You’re a _great_ secretary,” she informs him.

“Take that back,” Stiles groans, though her cackling is infectious enough to make it a good-natured one.

.

 _does it ever feel lonely being out there all by yourself?_ Stiles asks late one Friday night.

Lydia’s upstairs working on some kind of speech for one of her extracurriculars, and he’s curled up on her couch. He pulls a cashmere throw around his shoulders as he waits to see if a response will come. The television’s set to TCM, where a white-clad starlet dashes frantically down an empty hall, a dark figure sweeping behind her.

Stiles is only half watching, though. From his reclining position, he can see the tree outside scrape its branches against the violet sky. Without the shapes of neighboring houses farther off, he can almost imagine that he could step outside and find himself not in suburbia, but in a dark forest teeming with the sounds of the night.

 _I’m used to it,_ Peter replies a few minutes later.

_that’s not really what i asked tho  
_ _i mean i went camping a grand total of one time with dad  
_ _and it was freaky af being in the middle of the woods just the two of us_

_Are you worried about me, Stiles?_

Stiles thinks of Peter, alone in the dark woods. Kind of an intimidating thought, if Stiles was the one all alone. But why should Peter be afraid? He can probably see everything just fine with his super night vision, and hear anyone coming close for an attack, and smell wild animals enough to keep out of their territory.

_forget i asked_

There’s a short pause. _It’s not as lonely as it used to be,_ Peter says, and that’s probably as close to an answer as Stiles is going to get.

_aw. because you have a new source of entertainment?_

He expects some kind of smug response, but Peter surprises him. _Because I can feel the pack bonds now._

 _oh,_ Stiles responds, blinking. _duh_

_It’s nice._

_yeah  
_ _actually you know  
_ _you sure didn’t act like you wanted pack bonds again  
_ _not at first  
_ _even though you needed a pack  
_ _honestly dude, wtf_

There’s a long pause. _I may have difficulty backing down when I see an opening,_ Peter tells him, and Stiles snorts. What a diplomatic answer.

_in other words u like insulting people_

_People are usually assholes_

Stiles considers the text on his screen for a long moment. It’s pretty par for the course in terms of Peter’s life philosophy, as far as he can tell (and who’s he kidding, his and Lydia’s too). But if the remains of Peter’s old pack talk about him like dirt, it’s probably safe to say other packs do the same. Other allies, even. Other contacts and even “friends,” Stiles realizes. And maybe when that happens, you start taking every available potshot just out of habit.

_where is the lie  
_ _also…  
_ _how close were you to feral, anyway?  
_ _back when we first found you i mean_

_You make it sound like you picked me up off the street._

_and adopted you_

_I think it was the other way around, you uncultured idiot._

_probably  
_ _how close?  
_ _you can tell me now, we’re pack  
_

_Going feral is for lesser wolves._

_oh ofc  
_ _bc that would mean not having control  
_ _and we can’t have that_

_If I WERE the type to go feral, now would be the time._

_what why_

_My unpredictable human packmates would be enough to drive me to drink, if alcohol did anything for me._

_man you really had no idea what u were getting into  
_ _i feel sorry for you  
_ _not sorry enough to leave tho  
_ _you can’t get drunk?_

_My body metabolizes it too quickly._

_what is it like to be a literal god_

_Surprisingly boring._

Stiles snorts out a laugh. He rubs his eyes blearily, glancing at the television as a commercial brings full color back into the screen. He grabs the remote and flicks it off. _somehow i get the feeling you aren’t like most wolves, peter hale_

_I’m sure I’ve told you that before._

_guess i didn’t take the warning  
_ _and now we’re stuck together like this_

Peter doesn’t reply, which isn’t unusual for him. Stiles waits for a few minutes and then gets up, yawning, to brush his teeth and grab a glass of water. By the time he makes it up to the guest bedroom—which is for all intents and purposes his, whenever he wants it—his phone buzzes again.

_I suppose that isn’t terrible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Just bumped up the chapter count - my outline is growing and it’s getting EVEN LONGER somehow
> 
> \- I tried to set up the texting sections so it would be kind of conversational but you'd still know who's talking/texting. But if it was hard to read, let me know and I'll play with the formatting or something
> 
> \- Fun fact: in wondering about the timing of Oregon Trail/how long it was popular, I learned that it came bundled with a lot of computers for YEARS, which is the reason it became a cultural phenomenon that literally spanned decades. P.S. in case you’re wondering I don’t remember ever winning it??


	10. Voices in the Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is that a good idea?” Stiles asks, but he’s already grateful for the distraction, shoving the research aside to sink into the seat.
> 
> “Probably not, but we can get backup easy enough,” Lydia says, adjusting the rear view mirror as she throws the car in reverse. “Text your new friends.”

Lydia can joke all she wants about Stiles’s secretarial connections, but they actually pay off in a big way. (Also, if he _were_ a secretary, he’d definitely be channeling Pepper Potts. It’s all about the low-key secret superpowers.)

Stiles isn’t sure he’d have even given Scott his number if they hadn’t hung out together. Or if both of them hadn’t agreed to stop fighting their alphas’ battles. Or if Mrs. Hayes hadn’t partnered them for group work. (Does that mean he should thank her? Because he’d honestly rather die.) Whatever the case, he ends up pretty grateful Scott’s around to keep in touch.

_the other pack’s here,_ Scott informs him one morning. _boyd n erca caugt their scent on patrol_

_no sighting?_

_just scent for now. dereks gonna have us circle back in groups. he says stick togeether with lydia like planned and we’ll keep u posted_

_stay safe dude_

_will do_

Stiles hesitates for a few minutes before relaying the information to Peter. He doesn’t expect a response right away—Peter hasn’t replied to his earlier messages either—and assures himself that he isn’t disappointed when nothing comes.

It’s not until they’re leaving school that the response pings: _Stay together. I’ll be back soon._

_oh snap,_ Stiles writes back, _guess i can’t run naked and alone thru the woods at night anymore_

_I’m not joking._

_neither was i, mostly. im gonna put a shit ton of furniture in front of lydia’s door at night. and we’re always sticking together. dont worry about us dude just get back here okay._

At a lack for what else to do, and because there’s nowhere really _safe_ from an entire pack of enemy wolves, they head to Peter’s each afternoon. Their after-school study sessions have grown quieter than usual, with Peter’s house feeling oddly empty in his absence. The woods outside are particularly dark in the evenings as fall creeps toward winter, the long shadows of the trees spilling through the windows and into the corners of the rooms. Even Lydia has said she misses the werewolf, though she insists it’s only because of the lack of home-cooked dinners. 

It’s more than that, though. Not that Stiles is going to call her on it. If nothing else, she hasn’t lately had an opportunity to debate the merits of magical factions, or politics, or all the other things she and Peter seem to take a perverse joy in arguing about. Peter’s been pretty awesome as a sounding board—which Stiles respects because it’s sometimes nice not to bear _all_ of the brunt of Lydia’s intensity—and he knows the wolf has helped Lydia more than she’ll want to admit. 

In fact, just a few days before leaving, Peter gave Lydia a bound printout rustled up from some contact of his. Or a contact of a contact (of a contact? Stiles couldn’t follow the connection). Whoever it is, they offered up firsthand details of the MIT admission and interview process, plus insider knowledge on how the application factors are weighed. “Apparently, it’s quote ‘how the superior are distilled into the exceptional,’ end quote,” Peter had explained, with a somewhat bemused smile, as Lydia tore into the notes.

In the time he’s been gone, Lydia’s been sifting through the notes with a fine-toothed comb, weighing her own merits against the listed info. She’s tried to drag Stiles into doing the same, but he hasn’t been able to wrangle up his usual level of interest.

Because unlike Lydia, Stiles doesn’t pretend to be aloof. He kind of wants to know what Peter thinks of certain passages in the spellbook, but during the long periods when the wolf is too busy to reply, he steeps in frustration instead of doing anything useful. And though he’s used to Lydia’s habit of focused study—i.e. periods in which she doesn’t take lightly to interruption—he’s more recently grown used to having Peter tease and distract him from boredom during these times. Now, when Lydia’s busy and his work is done and he’s at a loss for what else to do, Stiles takes to meditating (well, napping, really) in Peter’s bed, pulling the plush blankets to his shoulders as the nemeton’s leaves rustle in his ears.

Eventually, Lydia tires of seeing him staring morosely out of the windows during class, or wandering aimlessly across the lacrosse field “like some idiot Jane Eyre.” One afternoon, she pulls her car up beside him after school. 

“Get in loser, we’re going to the woods,” she says. “All our shit’s here.” And so it is: thin stacks of string-bound parchment, a pair of bestiaries, a folder of handwritten notes, Stiles’s beginner’s guide to magic. 

“Is that a good idea?” Stiles asks, but he’s already grateful for the distraction, shoving the research aside to sink into the seat.

“Probably not on our own, but we can get backup easy enough,” she says, adjusting the rear view mirror as she throws the car in reverse. “Text your new friends.”

Stiles does, though he sidesteps any serious consideration of that label. He asks Scott, _u and isaac still out @ windsor park?_

_Yea boyd too_

_Just lacrosse stuff tho_

_Why?_

_can u be on call bc were going out to the woods, dont come or anything its just fyi in case of wolves or sth_

_Oh yea sure we got u_

_any new updates?_

_Other than the 2 huntin around the loft the other day, no_

_Also is peter still out?_

_yeah no real eta on that he’s kinda secretive which im sure he thinks is cute but it’s currently annoying af_

_Lol well derek says we’ll try to chase them out when hes bcak_

_Or at least if hes figured out enough to get them to leave_

Stiles isn’t sure how he feels about that. Given Peter’s wariness about this strange pack, he doesn’t know what to think. It depends on what Peter’s found, maybe. _hm ok,_ he writes at last, and then he leaves it alone.

It’s amazing how easily he and Lydia can convince themselves to do the dumbest possible thing, the way that—for all their combined brainpower—they’ll just as easily enable each others’ recklessness or ambition or cruelty. The mutual support is unspoken, no matter whether it’s for good or bad.

It’s probably why they’re such good friends in the first place. 

Stiles suggests a picnic, but they’re not about to test their luck prepping food in either her or Peter’s kitchen. (Contrary to his jokes with Peter, they don’t _really_ aim to burn the house down, and Stiles isn’t sure they have the basic staples to even put together a sandwich.) So they pick up takeout before taking the back roads toward the preserve. They park at their now-usual spot near the White Alder trailhead and tramp off the path, finding their way to the same secluded clearing where they’d practiced before. Stiles’s plants still thrive in a thicket on the edge of it, leaves crawling over the fallen log and clambering for sunlight.

Lydia lays a thin scarf across a tree stump so they can use it like a table, spreading their books around it as they chatter and eat. 

Once they’ve finished, Lydia takes a walkie and goes a little ways off to test her screaming for a bit—though, given Stiles’s hearing, nowhere near as far as before. 

For his part, Stiles decides to climb a tree. He can’t remember doing it often in the past; the Stilinskis once had a neat little shrub in the backyard that he’d clambered up and down as a kid, but nothing any bigger. And tree-climbing had never really been Lydia’s thing, so it hadn’t been Stiles’s either. _And,_ he remembers, studying the prospects that stand at the edge of the clearing, _I’m way too much of a klutz not to have broken my bones doing it._

But once he’s identified his best option—an oak whose trunk splits into low branches sturdy enough to bear his weight—he remembers that it isn’t all that hard, actually. Besides, his fingers and feet easily find natural ledges in the woody trunk, which almost seems to bend to keep him well-balanced. A new thing, maybe, or an extra gift of the nemeton. 

_Hah, I could double as a ninja master no problem now,_ he thinks—and for this sin of pride, the tree seems to buckle and let his foot slip, just a little. 

When he comes to a natural end point, a division of branches just big enough for him to settle into, he’s some thirty or forty feet off the ground. The forest is perfectly still around him, no birdsong or buzzing of insects. He can hear the fringes of Lydia’s shrieks every now and then, wailing shrills that seem to rend the air, demanding attention.

Stiles had been of a mind to see if he could encourage the tree to sprout some extra leaves, but now that he’s up here, with the eerie tendrils of Lydia’s wails slicing through him, he has another idea. He reaches deep into the place inside him where his magic waits, tugging it out and into the world. When it leaps forth, he coils it into the tree itself. 

Around him, the branches begin to vibrate slightly, as though moved by some soft breeze. As he concentrates, the movements become wider and rougher, the boughs swaying and leaves rustling as though blown by gusts of wind. Stiles holds fast, closes his eyes, and slowly extends the movement. The trees around him begin to rustle in answer, to bend and sway in the sun, the patter of their leaves as loud as heavy rain.

It’s weird—the more he settles into it, the more he _feels_ the forest. It’s as if the forest is an extension of himself, sharing sensations and information in its own foreign way. He can feel the supple bend of the branches, the bend of the grassy reeds in the breeze. 

Somewhere a little ways off, leaves in the undergrowth shift around something that’s moving closer, something that finally comes to a stop nearby. 

When he opens his eyes, Peter is standing in the middle of the clearing.

All of the trees in sight are moving in time with a nonexistent wind, the sounds of their leaves not quite enough to drown out Lydia’s occasional wail. The werewolf’s expression is tight as his eyes roam over the takeout and then around the clearing, and Stiles can tell even from afar that his claws have dropped. 

Stiles stops the trees, waiting for the storm-level volume of their rustling to die off before calling down, “It’s okay. It’s just practice.”

Peter’s eyes dart over, finally picking Stiles out among the branches. He straightens in feigned nonchalance, putting his claws away. From farther off, Lydia is beginning to scream again, and Peter winces. “God, both of you are creeps,” the werewolf snarks, just loud enough that Stiles is sure to hear in the new quiet.

“You’re one to talk,” Stiles replies with a grin, shimmying down the trunk—which is a great deal more difficult than going up, for all that the tree is still helping him do it. “What are you doing back?”

“I heard there was a picnic and I wasn’t invited,” Peter says, deadpan. “And that you’d gone defenseless into the very woods where two werewolves tried to kill you just a few weeks ago. I thought I’d join the fun.” 

Stiles makes a final hop to the ground. “Yes, yes, we make for terrible betas,” he agrees, flapping a hand dismissively. He’s elated to see Peter again, even if the werewolf’s expression is dark with irritation. 

Giving him time to get over himself, Stiles makes his way back to the tree stump, dropping to kneel on the grass. A line of ants is making its way back and forth to a half-eaten Chinese donut, which he puts on the ground near their pile, carefully sealing the others into their waxed paper bag. “You should be used to that. Anyway, want in on any of this?”

Peter must be more irritated than Stiles had initially taken him for, or else he’s offended by the presence of takeout he’s been so successfully steering them away from, because he stares flatly at Stiles. “I haven’t been gone long enough for you both to have forgotten the rules we agreed on. Like simple self-preservation.”

“We didn’t make any rules, per se—” 

“Stiles _._ ”

“ _And_ if you’re going to get all up in arms about it, then just so you know, betas as new as we are can only look to our alpha to know how to act,” Stiles retorts imperiously.

“Meaning?”

“Youpromised you’d text when you got back, and you didn’t do that either. And anyway, we _did_ text Scott to be on alert. He’s one of the betas in the Lesser Hale pack,” he clarifies when Peter only looks at him blankly.

“Is that why you smell so much like them now?” Peter asks, lips curling. He’s pressed his hands to his ears, wincing again. “Having someone ‘on alert’ isn’t the same as having someone physically with you. You know, in case another pack attacks?”

“Which is something we need to practice for, and we can’t exactly do that indoors,” Stiles counters. Into the walkie, he adds, “Dial it down, Lyds. Peter’s here.”

The scream cuts off instantly. A beat later, her voice crackles out: “You got it.”

“Can you come back?”

“Roger that.”

“We’re being careful,” Stiles tells Peter. “Scott and Isaac and Boyd are at the park on Windsor. With werewolf speeds, they can run here in under three minutes. Which is way less time than it’d take for the cops to get all the way to your place in an emergency, coincidentally. And they’d actually have the firepower to fight off a supernatural. We’re not stupid, Peter.”

Peter grunts, as if this fact is still up for debate. “Text _me_ next time,” he insists. “Whether I’m around or not. Before you do something stupid.”

“Oh, like you texted us everything you were doing on your no doubt 100% safe intel-gathering adventure? Sure thing.” Stiles huffs a sigh, and before Peter can interject, he adds exasperatedly, “ _I get it_. Okay. We’ll tell you next time.”

The silence between them stretches on, thick with tension. And in the midst of it, Stiles remembers that he’s actually excited to have Peter back, and safe, only he’s not really sure how to say as much. By unspoken agreement, they’re going to wait for Lydia to make her way back here before Peter debriefs them on whatever he’s learned, so Stiles he casts around for another topic—until Peter beats him to it. “Your skills are developing well,” he says offhandedly. “The trees.”

“Yeah. Not super practical, I know. But it’s cool to know I can do it.”

“You’re getting stronger.”

“Eh. Or maybe just better at using what I’ve got.”

Peter eyes him. “No...unforeseen side effects?”

_Always with the roundabout ways of saying what he means to._ “You’ve got to stop worrying all the time.”

“I’m the alpha. It’s my job. And you didn’t answer the question.”

“No side effects, Peter. I’m fine.”

They let the matter drop again. This time, at least, the quiet between them is slightly more comfortable. Stiles entertains himself by growing flowers from the roots of the tree stump, plants whose names he only knows after having done a bit of research to satisfy his curiosity: orange poppies, chicory, sun drops, hedge parsley, cornflowers. Vibrant bursts of them appear one by one until a veritable carpet of them stretches a few feet away in all directions.

When he feels at last like the magic is beginning to tire him out, he looks up to find Peter watching him lazily. He’s leaned close again, just as he’d done back on that morning he left, only it’s with curiosity this time. It lends an openness to Peter’s expression, something eager and expectant, something Stiles thinks he very much likes. He watches the motion of Peter’s mouth as it stretches into a smile, and the growing flowers stutter to a halt. 

Stiles looks away. “Where’s Lydia?” 

“Almost back.”

She’s been a long time coming. When she steps out of the woods a few moments later, flipping her long braid over her shoulders, Stiles catches something unreadable about her gaze—at least before she pins Peter with a searching look and approaches, pulling her skirt up so she can step carefully over the flowers. “Nice of you to show your face again,” she says primly, settling down at the makeshift table beside them. 

“Hello to you, too,” Peter replies, brow furrowing welcome. Stiles, who knows that Lydia has been just as worried for the alpha as he’s been, can tell Peter hasn’t yet realized that Lydia often builds a wall of haughtiness between herself and any show of emotion, sometimes even with people she cares for. He maybe hasn’t realized that this particular instance of haughtiness comes with a faintly playful raising of her eyebrows. _We’re not great at this yet. But we’ll all get there,_ he thinks. _Eventually._

“So,” Lydia begins, “How was the trip?”

“Useful,” Peter replies.

Stiles and Lydia exchange an exasperated glance. “So what’s the update?” Lydia demands.

“The update,” Peter says grimly, “is that I know which pack it is now. Their alpha, Amelia Winslow—she used to be allied with the rogue alpha I killed.”

“Yikes,” Stiles mutters into the ensuing silence. He nibbles the edge of a donut, wondering if this development actually makes it _their_ pack’s fault for the first kill, not the Lesser Hales for the second one. Or at least the blame could be partially on them? Either way, it sounds like he and Lydia might have their hands full trying to keep all these feral werewolves from giving into their murderous tendencies every time they get pissed off. “Well, that’s pretty awkward.”

“And problematic. It also explains how they learned about the opportunity to expand into this territory. Their former ally, even as mad as he was, was killed here. Once they knew that, even a minimal investigation could tell them the leadership here has changed, with Derek and I stepping into alpha roles. And they obviously think it’s a good time to take over, while the changes are still fresh.”

“How did you learn who they were?” Stiles presses. “And wait, did they...you know, see you? Do they know _you_ know all this stuff, or is that still secret?” Peter raises an eyebrow in response, and Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Impressive Guy, yes, you’re _very_ sneaky and smart.”

“I still have a few...well, I wouldn’t call them allies, but _contacts_ in the region _,_ at least. It was just a matter of touching base and putting two and two together once I was in their territory. And a little scouting. There’s a beta temporarily in charge of the pack at the moment, with about half of them—most importantly the stronger fighters, by all accounts—noticeably missing.” 

“Missing because they’re somewhere around _here,_ you mean. What does that mean for us?” Lydia wonders, frowning.

Peter hums, his gaze fixed on the trees farther off. “It means...I doubt they’ll stop with discussion or debate, not that I thought there was much hope for it. This is a good home for a large pack that needs room to grow. It’s a big territory, and there’s room to expand to the northeast if they need space. We’re two newer, untested alphas, with extremely small packs of new, young betas as backup. And with the Lesser Hales drawing first blood on their beta, the Winslow pack can easily say they were on the justified side of a territory war—and that’s only if they don’t provoke any of us into anything worse at some point.”

Stiles considers the disorganized Lesser Hales, who for all intents and purposes aren’t too different from him: dumb teens who were recently given superpowers they could only have dreamed of. Except that everything he’s read indicates freshly bitten wolves tend to have short fuses. “I know none of the others are _actively_ gunning for more blood,” he admits. “But since they’re all new wolves, the Winslow pack could probably lure them into it if they play their cards right.”

“What’s their alpha like?” Lydia presses. “Amelia?”

“In a word? Cunning. I had to advise Talia several times not to ally with her over the years, because I was never completely sure how far we could trust her. She’s ruthless, certainly, to have thrown a new and hotheaded beta into the Lesser Hales’ path in hopes that he’d provoke them into killing him. And she’s also cautious enough, I’m guessing, to realize that if two of her best were unable to pin down what you were after tracking you, they might need to pull back to make sure they aren’t getting in way over their heads. They’ve been regrouping to gather intel and observe, most likely. It’s what I would do.” 

“So what does it mean that they’ve come back? That they’ve figured out what we are?”

“I doubt it. But possibly. And it’s less likely with Stiles, given that your powers are…”

“Complicated?”

“Unique. There’s a very slim chance the pack may have guessed Lydia’s scent from past experiences with banshees, but banshees are rare. Of course, if they’re anywhere in the preserve, they could guess by the screaming,” he adds pointedly.

“Oh. Fair enough,” Lydia allows.

“But I doubt they’d be hanging around here. It would be stupid to set up camp within the territory. No, they’re going to be staying somewhere farther out, over our borders. And I’d be willing to bet they’ve _been_ here. Just coming and going, scouting out the entire territory for snares and traps, checking for wards. Trying to make sure it’s a good fit before they go to the trouble of making a move. Which they can only do with great care. And they’ll also be investigating to see if we have any nearby allies hidden away, people who would either support us or be willing to part with intel about us.”

“But we _don’t_ have any,” Stiles says, and it comes out like a question.

“Not anymore, though they couldn’t possibly know that. None that would fight with us anyway. The closest thing we have is the Latham pack to the south—contacts more than allies at this point. They’ve mentioned that their betas were recently accosted by strange wolves, who shot off a flood of vague questions about our pack’s makeup, the territory, the supernaturals living nearby, that sort of thing. We’re not exactly close, so they didn’t know enough to offer much.”

“They’re basically doing to us what you just did to them,” Stiles thinks aloud. “Only they’ve taken way longer to get intel.”

Peter smirks. “Yes. But to be fair, the kinds of information they’re after isn’t as easy to find as what I needed to know. I didn’t need to make sure my entire pack wouldn’t be moving into a new territory that could essentially become a deadfall. Or spend time scouting for supernatural allies and threats that may or may not exist.”

“Yeah, I guess you just needed to know who and why, not...I dunno, check for needles in a haystack.”

“And all of this is in addition to figuring out the two of you, since they’re likely still hoping to learn what you are before they do anything, just to have no unknown variables. Of course, they may be reasonably sure, since you didn’t exactly fight back, that your powers are minimal at best.”

“So this is why we haven’t seen them since they attacked us,” Lydia clarifies. “They’re basically...well, _we’re_ basically pretty low-priority in terms of potential dangers they need to check out.”

Peter shrugs. “Maybe. Or else they’re especially wary. Amelia Winslow seems to be cautious and calculating as a rule, from what I hear. And I’m not sure her betas would be any different.” He frowns and then adds, “Not that it matters, since she also has a reputation for being...traditional.”

“Meaning?”

“The pack structure is extremely rigid. The alpha is the commander, ruling with an iron fist. It’s her way or the highway.”

Lydia hums. “Relatable.”

Again, Peter snorts. “This pack is very clearly the opposite of traditional. Haven’t you noticed I don’t order you around for everything?” (Stiles primly ignores the pointed look Peter sends his way.) “I certainly didn’t forbid _you_ from dating someone from another pack,” the werewolf adds to Lydia.

Stiles whips around to face her at once, suspicions confirmed. “So it _is_ official now? With that asshole?”

“Is that not allowed?” Lydia snipes back, maybe directing the question at them both. Stiles can’t help but notice she’s not really answered the question.

“I didn’t know it hadn’t been discussed yet,” Peter offers, before the two of them can get into it. “And normally, inter-pack dating is frowned upon. Even actively discouraged or banned. Most alphas, especially the more traditional ones, don’t like it. I don’t particularly care, as long as it isn’t putting the pack in danger. And as long as he doesn’t hurt you,” he adds as an afterthought. “Though I don’t think you’d be the type to tolerate it.”

Stiles watches Peter consider this line of thought, and he guesses he’ll have good company to help him slash Jackson’s tires or something if the idiot ever upsets Lydia like he has before.

Lydia is frowning thoughtfully. “Would you _want_ the pack to be more traditional? Is that...better? Not like I’m offering, but...”

It’s a question that hasn’t really occurred to Stiles—they are what they are, after all—but Peter pauses to consider it. “If I did, I would have had to turn a few people into proper werewolves like my dear nephew has,” he says eventually.

“I mean,” Lydia tries again, “wouldyou want to order _us_ to do what you say?”

Peter seems to have a harder time dancing around this one. “Yes,” he says after a beat, mouth twisting. “Sometimes. But only for the essentials. For your safety, or the safety of the pack. As it is, you aren’t wolves, so it’s much easier for you to disobey a direct order,” he adds, shifting. “And with betas as hard-headed as the two of you seem to be…”

“We’d have to _choose_ to,” Stiles clarifies as it finally clicks. “It’s different because we wouldn’t be so bound to follow.”

“Yes. The structure of a pack, a pack full of _werewolves,_ is different. If you were werewolves, I could be sure of it. I could be sure of _you,_ ” Peter explains slowly. “If I ordered you to do something for your own safety, it would be much more difficult for you to do anything else. But since you aren’t, all I can do is trust you to choose to follow my lead. And yes, I know I initially encouraged you to join me specifically because you aren’t wolves, but I hadn’t considered what things would look like if I decided to keep you around in the long-term,” he adds haltingly, as if he’s picking his words with care. “I expected you to be _nominally_ pack. To give me a boost in power while keeping to the sidelines. Not to…”

“To show up at your house every day?”

He rolls his eyes. “To be so demanding. And _present._ ”

“Sorry?” Stiles tries sheepishly. Next to him, Lydia is grinning, just a bit.

“It’s unusual and—if I’m being honest—a little unsettling,” he adds, more seriously than Stiles had been expecting. He lets them sit with that for a moment, both taken aback, before asking, “ _Can_ I trust you to follow my lead, when it matters?”

Stiles feels suddenly guilty for forgetting that pack means something different to a werewolf than it possibly could to a human. That pack can be meaningful in ways that Stiles will probably never understand. That for born wolves, a pack connects in ways he and Lydia won’t ever be able to with Peter, and in ways Peter might be missing profoundly. They don’t mean to make it harder than necessary for him, but their ignorance and missteps must have made things more frustrating. 

They don’t know what they don’t know. And though Stiles doubts there’s a book in the world with a helpful title like “An Introduction for Humans Who Want to Make Things Easier on Their Overbearing Alpha Who Lost His Entire Pack,” he and Lydia are usually quick studies. At least once their focus has been properly directed. 

“You can trust us,” Stiles reassures him, and maybe himself, too. “We may not get all this stuff right away, but we’ll do our best to figure it out. “

Lydia shakes her head slowly, but she’s smiling—a real smile, not the flippant one she sometimes pastes on around non-Stiles people. “Trusting two packmates who can’t even help defend your territory. It sounds like a pretty tactless leap for the great Peter Hale.”

Peter shrugs, though he looks a smidge less solemn now. “Defense is my job,” he states. “Not yours. That was part of the agreement from the start.”

“Along with worrying, apparently,” Stiles adds with a sigh. He still doesn’t like the idea of Peter defending them on his own, just as he hadn’t liked the idea of Peter going off to find answers on his own, for all that the latter has turned out just fine. Even with Lydia’s pain-inducing screams and his extra juice from the nemeton, Stiles isn’t sure what they can possibly do to help when things come to blows. Claws. Whatever.

Peter’s right. Defense is going to have to be left to him. Stiles and Lydia will be next to useless when shit goes down in a real fight.

But maybe it’s because they’re sitting in the midst of a superbloom of flowers of his own creation, or because this nemeton itself never feels terribly far away when he’s in the preserve. Either way, even in the middle of the day, Stiles feels his attention pulled into the same current that usually sweeps him away at night—only gentler, guided by a familiar and soothing thrum. He becomes aware of the trees at his back, the tree he’d climbed just a little while ago, feeling the branches bend and sway to his will.

He makes the leap at once. _Who says it has to be a real fight?_

Peter, who always seems to instinctively know when his mind wanders toward the nemeton, is staring at him. 

Stiles offers a reassuring smile. “Lyds and I can’t do much besides whip out mace or tasers,” he begins slowly, “but what if we could get those guys running scared without getting physical? I mean, the whole thing of wiping out another pack to end a dispute— _they_ want that outcome, but we obviously don’t. Not if we want to keep the good opinion of other packs in the region, right? Not if we want to show we aren’t a bunch of bloodthirsty murderers who need to be dealt with? So maybe...it would be better in the end if we get _them_ to choose to walk away.”

Even as Stiles is saying it, it sounds childish. The words of someone who doesn’t understand how the world really works. 

Despite this, Peter cocks his head in interest. “What did you have in mind?”

“At the moment?” Stiles says. He looks at his feet, staring down at the winding stalks of the hedge parsley, now bobbing in the light breeze. “More research.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Alternate chapter title:_ Get in Loser, We’re Going to the Woods
> 
> _Alternate chapter summary:_  
>  Peter: *herds Lydia and Stiles inside the house where it’s safe*  
> Lydia and Stiles: *sneaking out the back*  
> Lydia and Stiles: *singing* don't be suspicious, don't be suspicious  
> Peter, watching in resignation: I have made...a mistake.
> 
> Anyway, we've *finally* gotten more intel on the foreign pack! Despite the initial physical confrontation, they’re proving a bit sneakier than anyone wanted. Not quite Peter levels of sneaky, but sneaky all the same. Taking over a territory in a world where you have no idea what supernatural allies and protections might lurk around the corner seems like a bad bet, after all. But if there’s one thing this dynamic trio is good at…it’s research ;) Not always the most glamorous solution, but at the moment, slow and steady wins the race.
> 
> And let me get real for one sec just to say: My delightful comment peeps, just so you know, not only are your comments a CONSTANT source of joy, but also your observations and questions really make me pause and think. And when that happens, I end up staring at my notes for long periods and making edits. Like, within this chapter alone, based on convos in comments from past chapters, I made tweaks to add stuff about the foreign pack, Lydia and Peter’s interactions, and pact dynamics. And I always feel like the story ties together a little better when it's done. And while I can't always tell you directly because of spoilers (though I try to hint in comments when I can), please know that you are genuinely helping reshape this fic to make it better in lots of little ways all the time, and I appreciate the heck out of you for it <3


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